Daube de Banane
by WhiteWinters
Summary: It's hard to grow up - especially as a Nation.  Especially as a remote, confused, archipelagic Nation brought up primarily by the one and only France.
1. Identity: Unknown

The girl in the blue dress stood on the beach underneath the blue sky while blue water gently lapped at her small toes. But the water wasn't really blue – it was clear, right? But it certainly looked blue. And sometimes green if there was a big leafy thing hanging over it. The girl frowned and wondered for what must have been the millionth time why the water changed colours sometimes. And also what she should call the big leafy things. She hadn't decided yet.

Her face lit up suddenly and a laugh bubbled up from within her throat. Who cared, really? Why should she care about big leafy things, or loud annoying birds or changing colours when it was just her on this…this…place; whatever-you-call-it? She was free to do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted. As if to prove her point, she ran out into the shallows and splashed around, reveling in her childish ability to just _be. _Her dress bobbed around her slightly chubby knees and soon enough it was sticky with salt-water. But she loved the water, so it really didn't matter, right?

The girl in the blue dress played and giggled and swam in the shallows for a long time, never running out of energy. She squealed in delight as a large fish suddenly leapt out of the surf, scales shining red from the dying embers of the sun's rays. The girl finally noticed the passing of time and as the fish swam back home, so did she. The girl sloshed through the small waves and once she had reached the sand, skipped up the beach. Her small footprints preceded her.

She twirled and spun around in lazy circles, laughing dazedly at the beauty of her home. She actually lived here, she did! She paused as she realized that her feet had automatically brought her to her Thinking Rock – a small outcrop jutting out into the surf.

Now that she thought ('cause that's what the Thinking Rock is for, right?) about the day, it occurred to her that she had never seen that particular fish before. She wondered what she should call it.

She sighed in frustration. So many things needed names and she really shouldn't care, but she was just so _curious _and _confused _(especially today – now why was that?) and it was like that fish had come just to seek her out (why me?) and tell her that the big orange ball was leaving again (why does it do that anyway?) and it was like it called to her – but wait! What would it call her if fish could talk?

Hmm.

The girl in the blue dress frowned for the first time in a long time. What should she call _herself?_

Hmmm.

She was stumped. Because now that she really thought about it, something like her who could think and talk and actually, actually _think_ properly probably deserved to have a name more than a fish or a big leafy thing.

Hmmmm.

Today was a strange day. The girl nodded and left it at that. She would go to sleep and spend the entire day tomorrow at the Thinking Rock to puzzle out this mystery. She yawned and did just that.

I I I

But the next morning, the girl in the blue dress was distracted by a pretty seashell and forgot to accomplish the second part of 'just that.'

I I I

Many, many days passed and nothing changed. Well. Not nothing, really. The chub had left the girl's fingers and knees and cheeks and toes leaving her to wonder where it had all gone. But the water still lapped and the fish still swum and the sun still shone. For that's what she had decided to call the big orange ball. The sun.

But that fish had never come back.

The girl smiled and shrugged. Oh well.

The smile slipped off her face and she resumed with the poking of a bug with a stick. It was quite fun, actually. The bug – when poked – would make a delightful little buzzing noise and hop away, only to be chased down and poked again.

She sighed suddenly and dropped the stick, bored. Which was strange – she thought – because she could remember the time when she could splash for hours in the water or collect seashells all day long or take long walks on the beach for what seemed like forever. Now…now she was restless. A lot. And it frightened her.

Instead of the chore of naming things, she was now left to wonder why there was so much water. It was everywhere, really. Was everything like this? Was her home _it? _If so then why was she the only one here?

Hmm. She shook her head vigorously and went to collect her food. As she was walking back, the girl was focusing so hard that she didn't pay attention to her feet and consequentially tripped over them.

"Ah!" The hollowed, halved brown-nuts that she had worked so hard to prepare tumbled out of her arms and rolled jerkily down the beach. All but one came to rest (thankfully) before reaching the surf. The girl picked herself up and ran to reach the lone brown-nut before it filled with water, which would spoil the meat.

But something stopped the girl in her tracks. The brown-but was dry – floating on the surface of the water and gently bobbing its way along the beach.

"Whoa…" She stared at it, flabbergasted. It didn't sink. _It's not sinking! _

She picked it up and gingerly placed it back onto the surface of the water, this time further out. It floated. Again.

She whooped hysterically at her newfound discovery and scooped up the brow-nut, curling it into her chest. Her grin spread and spread until her cheeks hurt. She couldn't believe it! She pivoted sharply in the water, wincing as the coarse granules bit into her feet and ran back to the beach.

She grabbed a sharp rock and carved two dots and a curved line underneath because it was all she could think of and she knew that's what her face felt like when she was happy. She grinned (See? See?) again and ran up onto the thinking rock, tossing the brown-nut into the water below. She gasped in horror when it landed sideways and immediately filled with water, but quickly jumped in after it to correct her mistake.

When it didn't go anywhere, she almost cried in frustration. It just bobbed there. And she stared at it stubbornly as if willing it to move with her mind.

"Oh!"

With newfound determination, she launched herself into the water again and proceeded to carry the brown-nut to the nearest current. She never really questioned how it was that she knew about the currents…she just knew. She also knew never to swim in them 'cause they were really strong and mean.

So she waded up towards the current and when she was chest deep, she tossed the brown-nut lightly in front of her. It landed right-way-up this time and the girl cheered as it was swiftly picked up by the current.

She backed up and ran (waded) back to the Thinking Rock to watch it go, go, go – to who knows where – away from here to…where? (Who?)

I I I

The pre-teen in the blue dress stood on the beach, eyes popping out of their sockets. There were _things_ on the water! Far way… What were they? They were huge and big, and what, what, _what?_ There were big flat things that flapped around and the bottoms looked like her brown-nut, but only much, much bigger. And they were moving! On the water! How were they doing that?

The pre-teen crouched down in her hiding place between two trees when she heard shouts coming from the things. Shouts…that must mean others! Others like her! What? How? _Come here!_ She wanted to scream so badly, yell at the things that floated. She wanted them here! She was so, so curious.

She waited and waited, but the things passed by.

She stood there, mouth agape for a long time before collapsing in sheer shock. There was more than one. One she could maybe have handled, but fifteen? How…?

About twenty years passed since the viewing of her first float-y thing before the awkward little adolescent laid eyes on another one. But this time it was different. Very different. The float-y thing (there was only one this time) actually sailed directly to her island and into her solitary life.

The pre-teen was lying leisurely on the heated surface of an outcropping of rock when a strange noise cut through the air; a shrill whistle almost like a birdcall…but artificial.

_What is that?_ She grudgingly lifted her head from its comfortable position. She had to stop herself from screeching in terror at the new float-y thing looming in the distance. Not a far away distance, but a close distance – a closer distance than ever!

She stared, hypnotized by the float-y thing – its spidery rope-y stuff, billowing white sheets and the strange flap-y thing…well, _flapping_ above the biggest stick in the middle. It was red white and blue and it made a cross with diagonal lines and – and – it was actually headed here! She gasped at the delayed realization and scrambled off of the rock face, running, running, running away from these intruders. She wasn't ready to face these people yet!

She swatted at overhanging leafy-y things and expertly jumped over treacherous vines, not stopping until she had reached her cave which she dove into, vowing not to move until _they_ had left.

She held true to her word. She stayed huddled in that cave – too afraid to speak, too afraid to move. Well, she only moved to 'use the jungle' when she was sure no one was around or to delve into her emergency stash of brown-nut-things at the back of the cave. She knew they'd come in handy.

After the third day, she heard rustling in the trees along with some fierce swearing. She squeezed herself into a little nook and peered out into the trees through a tiny crack in the wall. But it was too low to the ground for her to see his face. Only black buckled boots and the bottoms of crisp white pants.

"Absolute rubbish… I've been all over the bloody shop today and no colony as of yet. Stupid blighters sending me over to God only knows where… "

The unknown man's mumbling grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared into the trees.

She covered her mouth to stifle her giggles. What a strange way of talking…

The pre-teen finally emerged from her cave a week later, moving silently as a snake, hitching up her blue dress so it wouldn't drag on the forest floor. When she reached the beach and found no sign of the float-y thing, she heaved a great sigh and finally allowed her shoulders to relax.

Over the next hundred years, she learned to get used to the ships (yes, that's what they were) passing by. Well…not really. She had grown up knowing naught but herself and this island. She couldn't help but feel small and insignificant next to those massive inventions of wood and cloth. As the years wore on, the amount of ships grew and grew, but none ever thought to explore the little archipelago with the lone soul in the blue dress.

But that changed rather unexpectedly one seemingly normal day many years later.

_AN - Mah Seychelles fic. Eventual pairings. I'm not going to say which because there are many. I took my time with this fic, actually researching this country and its origins after several French projects concerning it. :D Let's just say Seychelles has turned into a little obsessionof mine. Hope you like! _

_Footnotes - The fleet of 15 ships describes the fleet of Vasco de Gama and his voyage of 1502. He only spotted the islands, and he did not come ashore.  
- Seychelles second encounter with ships takes place in 1609 when **The Ascension **of The British Empire was lost in a storm and eventually landed on the islands months after. Our Arthur came ashore solely for a chance to write a bit of him. :P_


	2. Identity: Questioned

The young woman in the blue dress still did not know her name. She remembered how easily she could forget about this predicament when she was a child, but now… Now she tried every day in vain to come up with something suitable. It never seemed to work though. No matter. Perhaps next time.

Her hair swirled playfully, making patterns on her face before being blown lazily away by the wind once more. Even the dense vegetation couldn't keep the wind out. She knew it was probably a lot stronger outside the tree line.

She walked aimlessly through the jungle, following homemade pathways and meandering around the big leafy things which she still hadn't found a name for.

She felt so incompetent, she realized and…lonely? What did that even mean? The word was unfamiliar in her mind. Did she yearn for the company of others? Those on the ships, perhaps? Something inside of her clearly said: _No, no. Someone like you. _Startled, the young woman clutched the skirt of her blue dress and sank slowly to the ground, her head eventually coming to rest on top of her knees. There were differences? What was she?

She fought and fought, but after a while her shoulders began to shake and small sobs occasionally broke through her grit teeth. She had always been curious and hungered for answers, but lately her appetite had become insatiable. She had lived for hundreds of years alone on this island, only able to watch as those others on the ships were able to travel to distant lands. Did no one care about her? Why did she even exist?

_CRASH!_

She stifled a scream in response to the sudden noise and leapt up, simultaneously diving into a large fern at the base of a large leafy thing just in time to escape the notice of a group of men traipsing through the trees.

"_Je n'ai su pas! C'était une roche stupide…"_ A straggler who had obviously just face-planted.

"_Con! Lèves-toi!" _All the support he received came in the form of rudeness.

The young woman almost giggled at the insult, but held her tongue as she managed to get a good look at these strange people.

They wore loose white shirts tucked into startlingly blue pants, complete with a red sash around the waist. Well, some of them did. Others were using theirs to clumsily mop at their face, cursing while they did so. Their shoes were black and buckled, and probably would have been shiny if they didn't drag them around in the undergrowth so much. Some had blue buttoned jackets to match the pants, but again, more than a few were slung over a shoulder. Their hair clung to their heads and sweat was extremely apparent, she noted with a slight sense of disgust. All in all, they really didn't seem at all suited to be roaming around in the jungle.

They continued on their way and she glared off in that direction before springing lightly to her feet and running as quietly as she could in the opposite direction, to the beach.

What she found there stole her breath.

Two gigantic ships anchored just off shore. Two massive beasts looming, cutting off the horizon. Before she could really take in this awesome sight, she realized that there were more sailors swarming around on deck and ducked behind a rock, squeaking softly.

Her heart beat incessantly, cutting out every noise except for the sailors' foul French curses.

What was happening? What did they want? Why now?

But within her steadily mounting fear and confusion there lay excitement. Thrills coursed through her body that had nothing to do with misery or anxiety. Her eyes gleamed as she realized how much information she could have, how much knowledge she could absorb. But how to come about it?

She decided to just sit and watch for now, maybe glean things from these people – these outsiders.

She discovered that these men, despite their flashy clothing and their extremely dirty mouths were really quite comfortable around the ships. They worked together to tie ropes, hoist canvas, and everything else in-between. They had obviously come here for a purpose. They rushed around in what seemed like tandem, but their efforts paid off because soon enough, they were shimmying down thick moor lines and splashing lightly into the water.

And then, she saw them.

She could tell that they were important due to the sheer size of their hats. Said hats were adorned with velvet, feathers, ribbon and trinkets – all of which shone...somehow. The young woman noted their straight backs and unyieldingly precise posture. These two didn't follow orders, they gave them.

She knew one of them was the leader (was there a name for that?) – the one on the left. She could tell because of the many emblems on his dress coat. But who was the other one? The leader's right-hand? No... That didn't seem right.

The leader barked out an order in French and the sailors responded in unison and scattered. He then turned towards the other and conversed with him for a moment. The young woman stared, confused and unable to hear any exchange of words. There were a lot of hand gestures though.

Who was this man and why was he so important as to receive private information from the leader?

She watched as he clapped a hand onto the man's shoulder and walked below deck; probably to his quarters.

The strange man spared a glance over his shoulder and stood at ease, hands behind his back and stared out into the jungle. The young woman ducked even further behind the rock as his eyes roamed, scrutinizing every inch of what he could see. Or so it looked like.

She wondered if he was looking for her.

(She wanted him to find her.)

She wondered what would happen if he found her. That is, if he was actually looking for her, of course!

After a while, the man unclasped his hands and made his way to the mooring line. The young lady had to stifle yet another gasp at the way he expertly manoeuvred his way down the ropes – as if he had been at it for hundreds of years!

When he came to the last ten feet of rope the man let go of it entirely, making a perfect landing and waiting patiently for his hat to float squarely on top of his hair. Which was perfectly groomed, really. No sweat or dirt there. Which kind of made no sense since there was a lot of it. Shouldn't more hair attract more grime? Especially such blond hair?

As if the man could tell he was being watched, he straightened his already perfectly aligned hat and brushed a lock of perfect hair out of his face. Which was just blown back by the wind.

This seemed to amuse him and he smirked before striding out of the water and onto the sand. He didn't appear to be in any rush and to the young woman's horror; he stopped parallel to her hiding place – about fifteen feet away.

"_Je sais que vous êtes là. Viens ici s'il vous plait~! Je veux voir ton visag_e."

His eyes were closed and he was not looking at her, but the young woman knew he was addressing her. She knew she was caught, so without much internal conflict she stood up to face him, but stayed where she was. She would _not_ be caught off guard.

"_Maintenant, mon cher…_" He finally looked up at her and paused, startled.

"_Oh la la~! Ma ch ère!_"

The young woman blinked at the sudden change of attitude. The man walked forward, winked and continued on. The young lady had to stop herself from taking a pointed step back.

"_Et très belle, aussi._ _Oh hon hon hon hon_!"

The young woman's hands clenched into fists as she was scrutinized like the island before her. It took all of her will power not to reach up and slap this guy across the face for being so intrusive. And that laugh! How revolting! She really had to put a stop to this nonsense.

"_Arêtes!"_ She had to clear her throat before continuing on. She hadn't used it in so long. _"Qui es-tu?" _This weirdo would certainly not receive any formality on her part.

The man reacted without a second's hesitation. He threw a hand across his forehead, closed his eyes and gasped in mock hurt. His voice dropped to a whisper and he (clearly) pretended to clutch the rock for support. The French rolled effortlessly off of his tongue (the young woman tried not to notice.)

"How is it possible that there exists someone in this world who does not know of me?"

The wind chose this moment in particular to playfully tousle his hair, adding to the over-dramatization that was his introduction. He did not see the young lady roll her eyes and he most certainly did _not _wait for her to reply before rushing to fill the silence.

"I, who has lived for centuries, who has fought for freedom in many a ferocious battle, who is so handsome that I even have God on my side! How, how can you possibly say that you have not heard of me, the one and only _La République Française?"_

He paused to wipe a fake tear from the corner of his eye and blinked at her as if expecting her to fall to her knees and kiss his feet. She was above that, of course.

"Who is God," she inquired curiously.

This did not seem to be what France expected her to do. His eyes dimmed for a second and just as the young woman began to feel victorious, they lit up again and he began to speak.

"Ah~! _Mais, bien sûr_! You are new, fresh and young – how could you possibly know anything?"

_Ouch. _(More than you think, thank you very much!)

"I'm surprised you're not running in absolute terror from my men. I can understand of course why you aren't running from me. Who would run from me, I ask?" His eyebrows waggled rather (charmingly) distractingly.

_I'm sorely tempted_.

"Now. You know who I am, thank goodness for that. But more importantly…"

For the first time in their discussion, France's face grew serious and his voice softened.

"Who are _you?_"

The young woman opened her mouth to answer and realized exactly what she was admitting.

"I don't know."

_AN - LOL I LOVE THIS CHAPTER! So much fun to write. Mmmm'kay so now we have France. Indeed. Translations!_

_Je n'ai su pas! C'é tait une roche stupide = **I didn't see! It was a stupid rock.**  
__Con! Leves-toi! = **Stupid ('effing', if one wishes to be vulger) idiot! Get up!  
**__Je sais que vous êtes là. Viens ici s'il vous plaît. Je veux voir ton visage. = **I know that you're here. Come here please. I want to see your face.** __Maintenant, mon chèr... = **Now my dear (masculin)** Ma chère... = **my dear (feminine)**  
__Et très belle, aussi... = **And also very beautiful...  
**__Arêtes! = **Stop!**  
Qui es-tu = **Who are you (informal)**  
__Mais, bien sûr... = **But, of course...**_

_Footnote: This chapter portays the French voyage of November, 1742 - this first to these islands. Details will come in the next chapter. :)_

_I think it would have been a lovely challenge to write all the dialogue in French! (Practice makes perfect! *shot'd) But, no. English will have to do for now. :) Bear with the smatterings of French please. *Hearts hearts hearts* Hope you enjoyed!_

_ALSO! Y'know how Japan just KNEW how to speak at a young age? Well, I'm incorporating that with Seychelles, here. :)_


	3. Identity: Discussed

France studied her face for a minute before smiling at her. She wasn't surprised to find that it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Well we can't have that now, can we?"

He then proceeded to plop himself down on the sand, gesturing for her to join him. She did so cautiously and watched, astonished as he pulled various assortments of food and drink from different pockets of his coat as well as wooden…things. Her confusion abated as she watched him put the food on the flat wooden things and poured a tangy smelling red liquid into the hollow wooden things.

"_Bon appétit, ma chère. _What you see here is the best food you'll ever taste."

She regarded him coldly before curiosity got the better of her and she took a big bite out of a long, soft brown thing.

"_C'est le pain exquis, ma chère._"France watched her eat and the young woman tried not to feel self-conscious. "_C'est bien,_" she mumbled around her mouthful of bread...which really was delicious. She chewed and swallowed, taking a big gulp of the dark liquid. She had to stop herself from choking on the strange taste and set it down immediately after - since it made her head feel funny.

She stared at France and he stared back. This was her first real encounter with a living person other than herself. She had lived her whole, long life her on this island – isolated, curious, and unaware. Now this…France was probably going to dump some life changing information into her fairly empty head. The young lady sighed and resigned herself to the inevitable. _Best to get this over with._

"Do people usually live as long as us?" This was really her first question?

"_Non. _We are special. I personify a country that exists and you of a country that will exist." France paused, awkward, as if not sure of how to explain. "We live as long as our country, or as the memory of our country. Damned Prussia…"

(Prussia?)

"Country…like land?" The young woman had trouble wrapping her head around this new term.

"Ah, somewhat," France sighed and continued on. "You'll get it once you receive your name. Hopefully." He drank deeply from the bottle of liquid and looked at her. "We _are_ the land."

_Oh…_

This startled her. She had never really thought to connect herself to this island. And now…the attribution seemed obvious. But something was still missing.

"Why don't I have a name?" The young woman gazed up at France, imploring him to satisfy her thirst for knowledge.

"Ah," France sighed deeply as if wishing to be anywhere else. "Sometimes, older countries just know their names, or the name changes, or it might just take a while for the name to form."

The young lady nodded and tried not to flinch as France voraciously tore into hunk of bread, spraying it occasionally. She tried a different topic.

"What are you and your men doing here?"

France stared at her incredulously. "Oh hon hon hon hon! You didn't expect, me, the Mighty France to just sit on my ass and leave a beautiful little island like you for England to take! God only knows he has enough colonies already…"

The young lady perked up at the mention of another possible country. "England?" She mentally scolded herself for the way her voice rose in pitch. "Is he a country too?"

France cursed rather loudly and backpedaled. "Oh…ah, forget I mentioned him. You don't need to contaminate your mind with the likes of that imbecile."

He smiled sickeningly-sweetly.

She gulped. Okay then. She'd find out somehow.

Silence fell between them, punctured only by France's obnoxious eating. He was_ still_ eating.

The young woman took this chance to smooth out her blue dress and think for a minute. This France had suddenly come into her solitary life and thrown this extremely frightening (but also exciting) information at her, as if expecting her to accept it. But the strange thing was that she did. It was like this 'Nation' (how did she know that term?) thing was a part of her. Which it was – he had just explained that! Her frown deepened. But sooner or later his men would come back and they would take him away and, and then he would be out of her life just as quickly – and – and she didn't want to be alone again – she had to know, had to ask –

"How long are you staying?" Her eyes shone.

France seemed taken aback, but answered quickly with an air that suggested he didn't care in the slightest of what she thought. But the way he looked at her… She didn't really understand what that look implied.

"Oh, you know…Now we're just here to map. Scout things out. We'll stay for about a week and we'll leave and be back in a couple of years or so."

The young woman tried not to let on just how much this statement affected her. She had lived on this island for hundreds of years, after all…alone. She could handle two more – she could!

She cleared her throat and searched for a distraction.

"May I touch your - "

France's eyes bulged out of his sockets and he sprang to his knees, grinning. He reached out to grab – well, she didn't know what exactly because she had leapt backwards at his sudden movement.

"Your ship! May I touch your ship!"

She frowned in confusion as France seemed to deflate in front of her.

"Ah. Hon hon hon. _Mais bien sûr_…" He cleared his throat, stood up and offered her his hand as if nothing strange had ever occurred. Which she refused.

He rolled his eyes and bent to pick up the wooden things, (no food or drink remained except for hers, which he downed) before gesturing for her to follow him. They walked in silence to the water's edge and waded in. After a few seconds, they reached the massive ships.

The young woman gaped upwards, awestruck at the miracle before her. France's amused snort woke her from her reverie and after she threw a dirty look over her shoulder, she crept slowly towards the ship and laid a tentative hand on the barnacle encrusted bottom.

"_C'est la coque._" France suddenly burst into a fit of laughter and mumbled something to himself in rapid fire French. Something to do with 'telling England about that.' The young lady thought she did a stupendous job of ignoring France and his mentioning of this mysterious England_. It's_ _the hull…_

"_Et ces,_" She inquired.

"The sails, the keel, the mainmast, the hold, the rudder…" France listed the various body parts of the ship for the fascinated young woman. She ran a hand up and down the wood. How strange and magical and remarkable…

"_Ma chère…_" She looked up to see France glancing at the sun. She looked too and saw how low it had set.

"We cannot have the sailors see you. My captain (oh, so that's what the leader's called) knows about me and I'll have to tell him about you. But we must part ways for now."

(Wait! There's so much more I want to know. Please, please stay with me…)

"Oh. Well, good. I've had just about enough of your romanticism." She sniffed and made to turn away.

"Oh hon hon hon hon! I'm willing to bet that you don't even know the meaning of the term."

_France_ waved cheerily and winked, watching the young woman's steps turn into stomps. Okay, well – maybe she didn't know what it meant, but – but – it certainly described France! He was strange. And romanticism was a strange word, so it made sense…somehow.

She forced her shoulders to relax and she definitely didn't turn her head to look back. She made sure of that, because she didn't really care about France – she just wanted answers. But that would have to wait for tomorrow.

She quickly ducked behind a tree when she heard shouts off in the distance. She ended up there for at least ten minutes due to the fact that the French sailors were so loud and they were so clumsy that they kept tripping over various objects. They finally passed her in one large mob. She made her way gingerly out of her hiding place; she had been crouching for a long time.

Oh! She had forgotten to ask for a meeting place with France tomorrow!

She sighed and shook her head. She'd find him. She would have the entire night to devise questions that she could ask him – questions that would finally be answered! She couldn't wait! Not for France, of course, just for the answers.

Satisfied with her logical reasoning, the young woman in the blue dress wove through the many, many trees to a little cave deep in the jungle where she slept. She was relieved that the sailors hadn't found it out. She stretched, sighed sleepily and let the soft trickle of the underground stream lull her to sleep.

_AN - Chapter three! Hope you enjoyed. They'll be getting longer from here on out, I believe._

_**Translations:** __C'est le pain exquis, ma chère - **That's exquisite bread, my dear.  
**__Et ces? **- And these? **_

_____**Footnotes: **It wasn't until after I wrote it that I realized Prussia was still a country and not a memory of one. :P So let's just pretend France was refering to Prussia's empire..._

**_____Bonus Humour: _**_____Can you imagine how hard I laughed when I looked up the French word for 'hull' and found out it was 'coque?' Oooomgg, perfect for France. His reaction was basically mine. :P_


	4. Temporarily Advantageous

_« Ma sœur Nation, ma sœur Nation,  
__Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?  
__Sonnez les matines! __Sonnez les matines!  
__Din, dan, don. Din, dan, don. »_

The young woman smiled in her semi-sleep. Whoever was singing had a gorgeous voice. She rolled over and breathed out as the tune was repeated. She loved to sing. Maybe whoever was singing could be her friend and they could sing together all the time and –

Her eyes snapped open as realization dawned on her. She sat up quickly, narrowly missing her head on the rocky ceiling and gasped at the sight of France casually lying on his back by the entrance. He stopped singing when he noticed she had woken. "This is certainly cozy, _non?"_

"How long have you been here!" The young lady fought to keep her voice to a strangled whisper instead of the shriek it wanted to become.

He grinned and waived a hand airily. "Ah…you don't need to know…"

"Um…" She cleared her throat and asked the first question that came to mind. Anything besides France and his strange habit of watching people while they slept. "What are those big leafy things called?" France proceeded to raise an eyebrow in bemusement and pretended to think about it, tapping his jaw mockingly with a slender finger. She huffed and opened her mouth to ask again, but he held up a hand. "You're actually serious?" He grinned _again. _But he answered eventually.

"_Ils ont les palmiers…_"

"_Les palmiers…_" The young woman paused before emitting a loud cry of delight at having finally found the answer she had been looking for since she was a child. She quickly clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the noise, but her eyes still shone with juvenile glee.

France merely shook his head with a small smile. Still young.

They sat there (or in France's case, lay) for a while longer, listening to the island life. Until the young woman remembered with a start that she didn't really want France here.

"Um…can you go away for a minute? I need to…um, you know, get ready."

France stared at her for a second before jumping slightly and acquiescing, backing out of the cave and (not really) trying to banish the dirty thoughts from his mind. The young woman scoffed and ducked into a small back-exit to…go.

I I I

By the end of the day, France was nursing many small scratches from overhanging vines and a pounding headache, no doubt brought upon by the constant questioning (nagging) from the young woman walking beside him.

Did she really have to ask so much? Where was she even getting enough material to fill up the entire day? Oh, wait! What was that? Ahhh…blessed silence. But before France could so much as emit a small, satisfactory 'Oh hon hon hon,' the young woman was speaking again. He sniffed, miffed and turned his head slightly to the right to indicate that he was listening.

"Do…do you have any friends? Or is all just business with Nations?" She played with a strand of her hair.

France raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow before answering hesitantly.

"Well, we all have certain…relationships, you could say. Sometimes bad, sometimes good, sometimes…temporarily advantageous." He smirked as she frowned.

"Temporarily," she asked tentatively.

"We live for a long time, _ma chère._ We get bored and, ah, move on."

"Right." She wondered what exactly nations 'moved on' from. "Well, do you have a good relationship right now?"

France shot her a look of incredulity and pulled a strange red flower from within his clothing. The young woman wondered where…oh, never mind. It was France, after all.

"_Je suis la Nation de la République Française – la Nation d'amour._" He tucked the flower smartly behind his ear and bent down, grasping one of the young woman's hands and placing a delicate kiss on each knuckle, before grinning at her. "I am always in a relationship."

She grimaced and pulled her hand away, pointedly wiping it on her blue dress. Even though there really wasn't anything to wipe off. He was good at being charming, she had to admit.

"But you must have one person in particular who you really care about!" She persisted on his answering the question. Maybe he would finally tell her about another Nation!

France paused for a second before his smile softened and his eyes stared off into some distant memory. "There is a colony… His name is Canada."

"Who?"

_"Canada. _And the best thing is: he's _my_ colony."

France winked and continued to walk lazily down the semi-pathway, whistling. When the young woman stared after him, smiling slightly, he stopped and looked back. "Enough about silly Nations. What else do you want you know?" He cringed as he realized that he had just brought indefinite minutes of non-stop questions upon himself. Luckily, the young lady didn't seem to notice.

I I I

And so went the next week. Whenever France was not busy with mapping or scouting or maintenance working or other various errands, he would find the young woman somehow (how _did_ he do that?) and they would talk and talk and talk. Monsieur Picault would often wonder why France came back to the ships at night so worn out. He didn't ask though, preferring to let the Nation be. Although, the captain had his thoughts. Knowing France, these thoughts were a lot less innocent than what was actually happening – France merely getting his ear talked off.

Monsieur Picault gazed off into the wild unknown from the bow of the _Elisabeth, _marveling at how he, a Frenchman, had been given the opportunity to explore this _Ile d'Abondance _for his country – France. Those stupid Englishmen should just throw in the towel already. France was clearly far superior than, well. Than everyone else! Especially those Englishmen.

He sighed contentedly, mood reflecting the peacefulness around him. Take away his loud-mouthed sailors and this would be an ideal place to settle. The world could not confine him, oh no.

But it was time to head back to _L'Ile de France _soon. He needed to report his discoveries. Those were his orders, after all. Yes. Tomorrow, he would gather his men and prepare to cast off, so to speak. Hopefully he would be granted the chance to return to this beautiful island.

_Maybe it's even a chain of islands…_

I I I

The young woman's feet dangled off the edge of the Thinking Rock and she watched the French sailors prepare to leave.

She could wait. She had been telling herself that every day for the past week. It wasn't like the only living things she had seen in…well…ever were leaving for who knew how long. Except that they were.

She sighed. France was busy helping out with his captain and crew. He didn't have time to answer her questions today. He wouldn't for the next while. She sighed again and hopped off of the Thinking Rock. She walked slowly towards the ships – The _Elisabeth_ and the _Charles,_ France had told her.

She took care to walk within the tree line, so as she wouldn't be spotted.

A coconut (that's what France had called the brown-nuts) fell somewhere to her right with a distinct thud. She glanced at it and remembered the coconut she had sent off into the unknown. She wondered what had become of it.

Her mind was suddenly flooded with distant childhood memories. How innocent she used to be: alone and unaware that there was something out there that could cure her loneliness. But how could she have possibly been lonely when she didn't even know what the term meant? She shook her head. It just sort of occurred to her, really. Like 'Nation.' And 'romanticism'. But she wasn't about to admit to France that she didn't know what it meant. Maybe it was all just a part of growing up?

She scoffed in frustration and kicked at a clump of rotted vegetation before looking up and realizing with some surprise that she reached the ships and quickly sat behind a rock, watching. She noticed that France was wearing his hat again. Where had he put it this past week, anyway? On second thought, she didn't particularly want to know where he put it as she imagined it could possibly scar her for some indeterminable amount of time. The trinkets still glittered, though.

She sat and mused, and sat and thought, and sat and drew shapes in the sand. She really didn't know how to react to this situation. Her entire life she had been alone, always wondering – wandering – watching - (waiting?) And within one week, this – this _Nation -_ this France, suave and amorous had succeeded in turning her life upside-down. And now he was leaving, naught to return for years. This was really, _really_ too much. Could she handle being alone again for so long? Certainly she would meld back into the way she had raised herself...wouldn't she?

"_Ma chère..._"

The young woman jumped as France poked the back of her head teasingly. Had she really been thinking so hard as to not notice his pompous steps?

"_Bonjour, France._"

She pushed his hand away and stood up slowly, brushing sand off of her blue dress. She eyed him wearily and knew this was the last time she would talk to him for a long time. He eyed her for a moment. "How do you tell someone 'goodbye' where you come from?" He stepped towards her. She narrowed her eyes and answered, slightly snippety: "I don't know – I've never said goodbye to anyone before." He was getting rather close, wasn't he?

He took another step closer. "You really have no idea?"

It was when he reached a hand out to her direction that she purposely stepped back, out of his reach. Who knew what he could have done – what he could be thinking of doing? He looked crestfallen for a second before his hand flopped back to his side and shrugged, leaning against the rock and positively personifying 'alluring.' Tch. Wasn't personnifying a country enough for him?

She tried hard not to stammer. "Um…well, I have some idea." She nodded pointedly in his direction (to be polite, right?) and waved. She meant it to be sort of friendly, (not actually friendly, of course) but it ended up being more…awkward than anything else.

He raised an eyebrow (stop doing that!) and waved back – still leaning on the rock, smiling perplexedly.

They stayed like that for a few seconds, neither moving nor speaking, until – with a small start – France pushed himself off of the rock face and turned away, back towards the ships.

"_Au revoir, ma chère. Sois bien, maintenant._" He did not look back as he said this.

She hovered, anxious. This didn't seem right. She watched him walk away, away, away from her – back to his own life, but he had incorporated her into his life, right? And what had she done to thank -

"France!" She poked her head around the right side of the rock and called his name, not really caring if she was heard. She probably wouldn't be since the ships were pretty far away, anyway, but she had to tell him – she had to, because it would be rude if she didn't and he deserved it (even if he was weird and full of romanticism) for putting up with her and introducing her to this new, wonderful, terrifying world.

He stopped and turned around, looking at her questioningly.

She grinned and yelled: "_Merci beaucoup! __Pour tout – merci, merci, merci, merci!_"

He laughed (Oh hon hon hon hon hon!) and saluted, before turning back again and wading towards his vessels and off to…where was he going anyway? She laughed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She had forgotten to ask him where he had come from besides France! From what he had told her, it was too far away for his country to send a voyage all the way here. Next time, for sure she would ask him. She grinned and watched France's receding form grow smaller and smaller. _Next time…_

_AN - Wooooot! Chapter 4, yo._

**Translations: **_« Ma sœur Nation, ma sœur Nation, Sister Nation, Sister Nation_  
_Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous? Do you sleep, do you sleep? _  
_Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines! Morning bells are ringing, morning bells are ringing_  
_Din, dan, don. Din, dan, don. »_ _Ding dong ding. Ding dong ding.  
_**Based off of 'Frère Jacques,' of course.**

_**Ils ont les palmiers:**_ _They are the palm trees.  
_**___Je suis la Nation de la République Française – la nation d'amour: _**___I am the Nation of France - the Nation of love  
**L'Ile d'Abondance, L'Ile de France: **Island of Abundance, Island of France/ France's Island  
****__Sois bien, maintenant. Merci pour tout: __Be good, now. Thanks for everything!_

**_____Footnotes: _**_____So the song "Frère Jacques" wasn't actually published until 1811, but there is a striking resemblence to "Fra Jacopino," (Brother John) an Italian piece written in 1615. So let's just say France heard it and manipulated it. ;)_

_____Specifically, the palm trees mentioned are the Coco de Mer, (Sea Palm) native only to Seychelles._

_____During this time period, (have I specified yet? I will soon, I promise. XD) Canada (the colony) belongs to France, so he can have his merry way with him. So some Franada references to come. :D_

_____Monsieur Lazare Picault was a French explorer known primarily for his explorations of the Seychelles Islands. In 1742, (there's the time frame) he took two ships to the Indian ocean and discovered Seychelles' largest island (later called Mahé) which he named **L'Ile d'Abondance**. The two ships were indeed called **the Charles and the Elisabeth**, which is strange, I think - they sound quite British, don't they? But 3 different searches have told me the same thing, so... Let's roll with it. Only the largest island was discovered at this time. _

_____You'll find out about** L'Ile de France** later. :)_

_____And that's about it! Hope you enjoyed - reviews would be nice, too! :D Thanks for reading._


	5. And Maybe Fancy Hats

**Day 1 –**

Neither the bright sunshine, nor the incessant chirping of birds could wake the young woman from her slumber. She had made sure to stay awake the entire night to watch the lanterns of the ships slink slowly away, only to disappear over the horizon, leaving all traces of their existence from this island.

_Ma sœur Nation, ma sœur Nation,  
__Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous…?_

"France?" The harsh sunlight flooded into her eyes and she rubbed them desperately, looking around for that head of blond hair. She sighed in disappointment as all that met her eyes was the endless blue sea. The same one France and his ships had disappeared into the night before.

She stood and stretched, groaning as her sore muscles protested. Well, it was her fault for sleeping on the cliff. Whatever had possessed her to do that? She giggled softly and sat down again, wrapping her arms around herself. She _did_ remember that song, apparently. She wondered what it was called.

'_Ma sœur Nation…' _That was just too perfect for those to be the correct words. She wondered what the real words were.

She spent the rest of the day staring up at the clouds and pretending that they were ships and sails and anchors and maybe fancy hats.

**Day 2 –**

"Oh!" The young woman jumped up as an idea occurred to her. She ran to the place where she discarded her empty coconut shells and picked up one of the bigger ones. It easily spanned the width of her chest. The young woman remembered swelling with pride as France exclaimed that the coconuts on her island were the biggest he had ever seen. He had quickly gathered the rest of his men to examine them. She was special!

The young woman placed the empty coconut shell in the crevasse that almost divided the Thinking Rock so it wouldn't blow away. She then ran to the shoreline and collected two small shells. They really were small, but they were the ones engraved with the most detail; they were her favourite. She placed them carefully into the bottom of the husk – one for each day that France and his crew had been gone.

Satisfied, she stepped back. The palm leaves swayed lazily and the waves lapped at the sand, as if enticing her to join them. She waded in to her knees, but didn't splash around. She just didn't really feel like it for some reason.

The water reflectedthe pristine blue sky (yes, _reflected_ is what France had told her the water does to change colours.) The water never really did change after all. It was just her surroundings.

**Day 44 –**

_Plunk _went the seashell into the coconut husk. And _thud _went the forehead of the young woman against the Thinking Rock. _Thud. Thud. Thud._

**Day 60 –**

The young woman swished her blue dress around her shins and thought about the many wonderful stories France had told her. Like all of the different land masses around on the – the _world _known as Earth. She still had trouble wrapping her mind around this fact. France had told her that the world was a massive, massive sphere (which is like a ball, he said) and it takes many, many months to cross an ocean on a ship. Who knows how long it would take to travel around the world?

_But, _France had told her, _technology is always changing and growing with the times. I have lived for a long time, ma chère, and I have seen this with my own eyes. Perhaps in a hundred years we will have strange machines to take us places. Who knows?_

The young woman smiled sadly. She could still hear France's voice so clearly. But enough about France. Her thoughts strayed back to the wonderful stories he had told her.

She really wanted to visit Europe, she had decided. And not just because France's house existed there. Apparently it was really diverse and multi-cultural. And she liked the sound of that. But then again, that place that France talked about a lot that she couldn't remember the name of seemed nice too. She really wanted to know what snow felt like. And cold. France's description may have been insanely detailed and romantic (there was that word again), but the young woman just didn't have a clue. Yes, actually, she wanted to go to that place again – that place that belonged to France.

Oh, France...

She was beginning to wonder if she was turning all of these stories into mere distractions...

**Day 81 –**

Much to her relief, the young woman found herself getting used to the concept of solitude. This being strange because this used to be her life, right? Did living beings really change her attitude that much?

Oh well. They weren't here anymore and they wouldn't be for a long time.

She nodded and returned to her task of cleaning the fish she had recently caught. Its scales scintillated in the dying embers of the sun and she was suddenly reminded of that fish – that fish she had seen a long time ago. She had never seen it since.

The young woman laughed softly and looked out into the ocean, (the Indian Ocean, France had told her) half-expecting that same fish to make itself known to her somehow. But nothing happened and the sun eventually dipped and disappeared beyond the horizon (it did that 'cause the Earth turned, France had told her.)

She continued to clean the fish and laid it aside once she had finished. She grimaced at her hasty work. It definitely wasn't her best. But it would have been worse if she continued to do it in the dark.

She retrieved the modified flintlock pistol that France had given her from the pocket of her dress and set it down beside her.

She skipped daintily into the trees and collected branches; small and gradually increasing in size. She walked back down to the beach and arranged his collection into a triangular formation and proceeded to light a fire with her modified pistol (France had taught her how; he was really quite intelligent.)

When the fire was hot enough, she laid the fillets on a slab of rock to cook them. She smiled as she remembered the look on France's face when she had cooked this for him. He even _admitted _to the fact that they were very good. And he was supposedly the best cook ever? Hah!

She sat and ate simply _recalled_ late into the night.

**Day 82 – **

The next day she was walking on the beach and she happened to glance up. And saw a ship! Careful not to draw attention to herself, she climbed up onto the Thinking Rock and observed.

Hmm.

The big colourful flap-y thing on the ship was different than France's. It had the same colours, but it was...different. More complicated. It seemed…familiar – like she had seen it before? She wondered who it could be. And what those big flap-y things were called and what they meant.

She flopped down onto the rock and watched the ship like a hawk until it was only a speck in the distance.

She would just have to ask France next time.

**Day 117 –**

Nothing much happened over the next while. Seashells went _plunk _and the young lady's forehead refrained from going _thud. _That was about it.

**Day 129 –**

The young woman sat huddled in her little cave, listening to the wind moan and shake the palm trees all around her. This rarely happened, but when it did the young woman knew to take shelter in her cave, away from any blowing debris.

Luckily, she had remembered to scoop up the coconut with the seashells in it. She didn't know what she would do if they had all scattered. But then again, there wasn't much of a point to aimlessly collecting seashells every day now, was there. But it was still special to her. She would just leave it at that.

She listened to the roar outside and hoped that anyone on a ship out there was okay. Not just France, but anyone.

She didn't know it, but a fleet of ships _did _get caught in a storm such as this, long ago. It made an emergency anchoring on one of her islands to the East. A long time ago.

**Day 143 –**

The young woman found a flap-y thing that goes on ships floating in a little pool and snatched it up before the untameable tide could sweep it away.

She studied it intently as if the patterned red white and blue was some sort of code that, if she solved it, could tell her everything she needed and wanted to know about where it came from. She frowned as she remembered that she had seen this before...on that one ship that one day she had seen and watched and tracked a while ago that wasn't France's. The one that had come ashore - for the first time - before even France. She wondered what he would say to that.

Who did this ship and flap-y thing belong to? Whoever it was, they must be powerful enough to be able to travel the seas so freely. And they came here… Did she want them to come back? Was France not enough?

No, she decided – France wasn't enough. She had finally, after hundreds of years received a taste of, of, well...a living, breathing person for one thing. But also to the stories of countless others and their accomplishments – so much so that she found herself hungrily wanting more, more, more until she overflowed, because that would be okay. She would rather uncomfortably overflow with knowledge than be contently empty with just herself.

Heh. Funny how things changed. The young woman remembered how alive freedom used to make her feel. How she used to be able to survive on nothing but the fact that she could do anything, anywhere, anytime. Which was still valid, of course. But now she knew that she could only do this confined to her island. And this deflated her excitement somewhat.

She stroked the red, white and blue fabric, curling it around her fingers and running it over her hands. It was tattered from the effects of the sea, but the design was still discernable.

_Whoever you are...do you know who I am?_

**Day 179 –**

By now she had the design of the unknown flap-y thing memorized.

_First a cross. Then two diagonal lines from corner to corner, but they go underneath the cross. The red is surrounded by a thin layer of white and the eight remaining triangles are blue._

The young woman looked, blank faced at her design in the sand. It looked very plain without the colours. Not what it should look like. Oh well. At least it was more complex than France's.

She grinned at the thought of France angrily insulting this flap-y thing and scolding her for comparing it to his own stunning (simple) one. Her smile slowly ebbed away into a thoughtful expression. Maybe these flap-y things represented countries. But did they represent the personified nations or the land masses themselves?

**Day 200 –**

The young woman poked at her chest. It was growing, she noticed. Two spots in particular. She wondered why.

**Day 225 –**

According to France there were some people who stole ships and preyed upon merchant sailors to plunder or pillage any possible valuables. _Les pirates, _he called them. Vile beings they were...caring not for any unfortunate soul that crossed their paths.

But France had voiced particular contempt for the, the...oh what did he call them again? Oh, right! The privateers. He said that these men hide their wrongdoings under the name of the King (who was some of the countries' boss, France had said.)

The young woman shook her head in bemused disbelief. Sure, these privateers sounded fairly rude, but did he really need to go on and on about them? Sheesh... It was like he had some sort of grudge against whoever gave the orders to these men...

**Day 260 –**

Her flintlock pistol had run out of powder. The young lady sighed and set it aside and went to find two sturdy sticks to rub together. When she did, she rubbed them in rhythm to the only song she knew that had a real beat.

_« F__rère Nation, frère Nation,  
__Ou es-tu? Ou es-tu?  
__Je voix les vagues seulement, je voix les vagues seulement,  
__Plouf plouf plouf, plouf plouf plouf… » _

**Day 300 –**

She shivered despite the balmy weather. Weird…

She splashed her feet playfully in the water_. Plouf, plouf, plouf._

**Day 330 –**

France had taught her about the calendar. How there were certain days in a week (She had them memorized) and a certain amount of weeks in a month and a certain amount of months (she had them memorized, too!) in a year and the year he had left was 1742, and he said it was November (which was late in the year, right?) so it must be at least 1743 by now.

She knew that there were three hundred and sixty five days in a year and she must be pretty close to that now…

The young woman really couldn't wait any longer to find out, so she jogged over to the Thinking Rock and wiggled the coconut husk out of its crevasse and dumped the little seashells onto the sand further inland, careful not to lose any.

And she counted and she counted and she counted until she reached three hundred and thirty days, er, shells – which meant that there were only thirty five more days to go before a whole, entire year would have gone by!

She grinned and gathered up the seashells back into the husk and wedged it tightly into the crevasse. She would need another one soon, she noted. It was getting kind of full.

**Day 365 –**

The young woman dropped the last seashell of the year into the now full coconut husk. She stared into the mass of shells and tipped her head to the side, contemplative. She wanted to do something with these shells instead of them just lying there. She…she wanted them to be more than just there – in the way – not special.

So after a moment more of thought, she collected some palm leaves from the jungle and slowly made her way back to the beach. She had so much time, after all.

She scooped up a handful of shells and started to connect them together by weaving them gently through twisted palm fronds. Her hands glided over her work with the utmost care. There was no need to rush, and besides – this was going to be a gift. She would present it to him in a year or so, and he'd better like it!

She sighed softly and hummed a tune of her own this time. She did not stop what she was doing, not even to wipe a stray tear that was sliding slowly down her cheek. She smiled the whole time and laughed shakily, pouring out her joy, her hope, her (dare she say it) friendship into her fingers – warmly weaving, winding, wreathing, working.

_AN - Love this chapter. :)_

**_Translations: _**_Ma sœur Nation, ma sœur Nation, _**Sister Nation, Sister Nation**_  
__Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous _**Do you sleep? Do you sleep?**

_Frère Nation, frère Nation, _**Brother Nation, Brother Nation**_  
__Ou es-tu? Ou es-tu? _**Where are you? Where are you?**_  
__Je voix les vagues seulement, je voix les vagues seulement _**I only see the waves, I only see the waves**_  
__Plouf plouf plouf, plouf plouf plouf… _**Splash splash splash**

_Three guesses as to what 'les pirates' are. :P And dont'cha just love French onomatopoeias? I know I do._

**_Footnotes: _**_The coconut of the Coco de Mer (remember the palm trees?) is the largest coconut in the world with a length of about 40-50 cm (about 17 -20 inches) and a weight of 15 - 30 kg (33 - 66 pounds). Yeah. Holy shit. Haha, their nicknames include the 'Bum Coconut' and the 'Love Nut.' Awesome._

_1743 + 100 years isn't that far off for said 'strange machines.' I believe the first automobile was built and patented in 1885. L'il side note._

_The first lighter ever used was a converted flintlock pistol that used gunpowder to create sparks in the 16th century. I guess it worked..._

_Oh, right. The storm. Seychelles is not within the cyclone belt, so strong winds are pretty unusual, but not impossible. Apparently - waaaay back in 1608 - a British fleet got stranded in a storm on one of Seychelles' islands; not Mahé. That's what prompted the British to send out the** Ascension, **which was mentioned back in chapter one. As well as Arthur. :D Thought I'd mention it in the story because that was basically what started it all. 'All' being the exploration of Seychelles. _

_Okay - slight controversy. I've labled Seychelles here as a young woman. But, clearly, she's just getting boobies - to be blunt. Imma stick with it though... Key word = young. Also, I'm lazy. :D_

_You guys all know the story about England and his privateers, right? Right? Ugh - long story short - privateers = pirates. But with a different name. And they acted under the Kind/Queen, stealing/looting for the benefit of England, but got let off the hook because they were only acting under orders._

_I leik them alliterationz. :B Also, come to Canada. It's preeeetty sweet. Oh, and reviews would be nice. Thanks for the support!_


	6. Wicked or Not?

The _Fleur de Lis_ made entirely of seashells and woven grass lay beside the slightly more tattered flap-y thing. The two items had lain in the same spot for almost a year now unless, of course, the young woman grew bored of waiting and turned them about around her fingers. Around, around, around, up, over, under, around – memorization.

Almost an entire year had gone by since she had started to make France's symbol. She knew he probably owned many of them, but she really couldn't think of anything else suitable.

She chewed a thumbnail and stared at the _Fleur de Lis_. It was rather large… What if France didn't like it, after all? What if he laughed at her with that infuriating 'Oh hon hon hon' of his?

She snorted and wiped her thumb off on her blue dress. Like she cared if he liked it or not. Well…it would be nice if he appreciated it a little bit since she had spent so much time making it just for him. …Why did she go through all that trouble anyway? Because she cared for him? Maybe just a little.

She glanced at the thing, shells shining in the blazing sunlight. And then at the crevasse where the coconut husk used to inhabit. She had decided to stop collecting the little shells after the first year because it sort of seemed a little cliché. What with all of her efforts to make a nice returning gift and all…she didn't want to come off as too clingy, right?

She brushed her fingers over her gift and the flap-y thing, respectively, before covering them up with palm fronds and making her way into the jungle. The sun would set soon and she felt like a good night's sleep tonight. Maybe she would see France soon. The thought perked her up and she trudged along her makeshift path towards her cave. Maybe France would be here tomorrow!

When he wasn't there after all, her frown lasted for only a second. It turned into a small, patient smile. She could wait. Waiting was nothing new for her, after all.

_Ou es-tu? Ou es-tu?_

I I I

When France finally did arrive, he made himself known to her in the most ridiculous way. But she probably should have expected it, considering France was always ridiculous.

She was sitting by the waterfalls, minding her own business and listening to the splattering of falling water onto rock. Her feet dangled into the river and she really couldn't have been more relaxed and carefree. She also hadn't been to the beach in a couple of days, having re-acquainted herself with this particular scene. It really was lovely.

She sighed and closed her eyes. Absolutely lovely. What she didn't hear was the pathetic excuse for a Nation sneaking up behind her.

"_Et comment ça va, ma chère?_"

"_Sacrebleu!_"

The young woman instinctively thrust her head out towards the unanticipated noise and successfully managed to head butt France squarely on the nose. Because of this, he stumbled backwards and somehow his foot managed to find the only vine existent on the very smooth patch of moss he stood upon. His arms flailed madly for a second before he tumbled and fumbled and crashed to the ground until he was definitely sitting upon the moss and certainly not standing.

The young woman stared in absolute shock at the man – at France – on the ground, in front of her, real, there, _here – _and she wouldn't lose it, oh no, not at all.

"I - I guess even the country of love can't trip and fall graciously…" Her words were slightly breathless, she was ashamed to admit.

He glared up at her, rubbing his nose making his next words slightly muffled. "You must understand that this was all planned, of course."

"And how's your face?"

He scowled. "Perfectly gorgeous, as usual."

They stayed like that for a few seconds, one smiling and the other grimacing slightly, until they really couldn't contain it anymore and the laughter burst through their lips like everyday spent apart never existed and after a few more seconds, the young woman was clutching her stomach

and France's customary "Oh hon hon hon hon" was punctuated by a few snorts – perfectly charming snorts, of course.

The young woman didn't bother to wipe the tears from her eyes and she reached out a hand to help France to his feet. He grasped it tightly and she couldn't help but laugh in delight at the first human contact she had had in almost two years.

When he stood she noticed at once that her eyes now reached his finely-stubbled chin. He noticed too.

"You have grown, _ma chère._"

"Hmm…" She really didn't have much to say at the moment. She was just really happy to have someone to talk to again. Even though it was France. Oh well…

She made to tug her hand out of his, but he kept his hold and brought it to his lips, brushing them against her knuckles, differently from the first time though. Longer, more sweetly… She smacked the back of her fingers against his chin in slight annoyance. Must he really do that?

He winked and (finally) let go of her hand as she sighed in exasperation. He opened his mouth, but she interrupted before he could say anything.

"Come with me. I want to give you something. And show you something."

France spluttered and immediately crossed his legs for some reason, insisting that she walk in front of him - "so she could lookout for vines." Alright-y then, she just wouldn't ask.

They walked in silence. The young woman was glad, really that they didn't talk. Her mind was going, going, going at one hundred miles per hour, thoughts flitting in front of her vision and dashing away just as quickly as they had appeared– and she was afraid that if she opened her mouth she would end up saying something stupid, but France was here now and everything was alright because now she had a – a – friend? Yes.

They reached the beach, but the young woman couldn't see the ships. Odd…perhaps they had settled on the far shore.

She checked to see if France was still behind her – he was, and reached down to remove the first palm frond – revealing her gift.

"_Ma Fleur de Lis… C'est magnifique…_"France bent over the symbol and picked it up hesitantly, as if afraid he might break it. He turned it around in his hands and threw her a questioning look over his shoulder.

The young woman scuffed the sand with her shoe, hands behind her back.

"It's made of the shells that represent the first year you were gone. Three hundred and sixty-five days in a year, right?"

She knew she was right, but he was kind of being really silent. Did he like it? Hate it? What? She waited anxiously for him to say something.

He nodded absently and when he looked up, she was relieved to see a big smile on his face. Not a smirk or a leer or a false emotion, but a real smile. He folded it up gently and placed it in a small bag hanging on his waist. When he had closed it properly he looked back up at her, expression thankful – not like him.

"Thank you, _ma chère_. No one, besides Canada has ever made something like this for me. It's beautiful."

She paused, astonished at his lack of criticism. "Um," was her intelligent reply. "Um…well, I'm good with my hands…"

France full-on choked this time before he plopped himself down onto the sand, crossing his legs yet again. Why did he keep doing that? Was it something she was saying?

He cut her off before she could say anything. "Is there anything else?" He gestured towards the second palm frond and the young woman remembered the strange flap-y thing. Right. France let out a relieved puff of air and readjusted his bag slightly to cover his lap while the unknowing young woman had her back turned.

"What's that coloured piece of fabric on your ships? What does it mean?"

H answered right away, finally used to her unyielding curiosity. "It's called a flag. Each country has a different flag with different colours to represent it. We have them on our ships to let other bastar- Nations know who we are."

"Oh." Well that explained things. So the 'flag' she had under the palm frond meant that it belonged to another country. How exciting! France would surely want to know about this. "Well, I found one different from yours!" She turned quickly and tugged the flag from underneath the leaf, holding it out to France.

He immediately stiffened and made to grab it from her, but she danced out of reach. The laugh died in her throat at the mutinous look France was giving the flag.

"Um…w-who does this belong to?"

France actually snarled. "An idiot, nothing more. Trust me, _ma chère_ – you want nothing to do with this Nation. He thinks he's the best at everything he does, but – oh hon hon hon – I know the truth of it all. He can't cook, can't make friends, and his eyebrows…" At this, France shuddered and the young woman couldn't help but laugh.

"Eyebrows? Are they that bad?"

France nodded vigorously and clutched as his hair, messing it up slightly. "Hideous! And to think that I have kissed the hand that touched that pathetic excuse for a flag! _Mon dieu!"_

The young woman watched the century's old nation openly weep in front of her and considered comforting him, but thought better of it because she really did want to know who this "awful" Nation was now that her curiosity was piqued.

"_Ferme-la, France._" The young lady placed her hands on her hips and donned the best scowl she could muster.

"Tell. Me. Who. This. County. Is."

France scowled right back at her. "Fine! It's…England. And he's more of an empire, anyway. He took my top half once… But I'm still better than him, so don't worry."

_Worry about what? _The young woman shook her head. Honestly. France could be so…so _weird _sometimes. But England. So _this _was England. She wondered how much of France's story was really true. Was England actually that bad?

"England…" She tested the unfamiliarity of his name and it sounded strange and exciting on her tongue. France cursed in front of her. "Stupid Englishman."

She glanced at him for a second before her eyes wandered out to sea. She remembered that ship with the English flag that sailed past this island many months ago and the one that had stayed here hundreds of years ago. But she wouldn't tell him about that…not yet anyway. France followed her gaze and his eyes widened in understanding.

"One of the bastard's ships was here?" France leapt to his feet and within two strides he had grabbed the young woman's arm and forced her to turn her head towards his. "Did you see it? Him? Anything remotely English?" She shrunk back when confronted with the fire in his eyes – true French passion.

"N-no! He wasn't here! I j-just saw a ship sailing by a few months ago; it never came ashore!" She struggled as France searched for the truth in her eyes. Satisfied he had found it, he let her go and she pointedly took a step back, rubbing the spot on her arm where he had gripped it.

"_Qu'est-ce qui ce passe, France?_"She bit back the urge to whimper from the fear and the pain. "He's just a Nation…right?"

France scoffed and turned his head to the side. The following pause seemed to drag on forever, but the young woman was too afraid to say anything lest it was the wrong thing to say – but what was the wrong thing to say anyways? She couldn't seem to come to a decision, so she waited. And was ultimately caught way off guard when France finally answered.

"As much as I want to say yes, if I did I would be lying." The young lady looked at him, expression filled with shock now, rather than fear. She could almost picture his pride battling with what must be the truth – that England was a force to be reckoned with.

What had happened between these two? The young lady wondered, at a loss for what to say or do or think or speak or comfort or – what should she do? France was being so unlike France with that previous statement. It kind of scared her.

Before she could say anything, France turned towards her and spoke softly. "England, despite being a complete and total fool, has the ability to…obtain future colonies from their rightful owners. He's been at it for hundreds of years and…I don't want to lose you, _ma chère."_

And with that he turned and walked away, forgetting even to flip his hair behind his head like he usually did when he left.

And the young woman stood there. Unsure. Unstable. Uncertain. And suddenly very, very uneasy.

I I I

It was raining when France found her again. It was also night-time. The young woman was not in her customary cave, but sitting on the same smooth (except for that one vine) rock face overlooking the same waterfall. This time, France was sure to make himself heard as he walked arrogantly over to where she sat. She scooted over to make room for him.

"How do you keep finding me," she asked – a little hesitantly.

"Because I'm just so good." He flashed her one of his (supposedly) charming smiles, but she couldn't tell if it was faked or not. With France you just never knew.

She elbowed him in the ribs and he chuckled softly. "'S'not an answer…" She wasn't really sure why she was mumbling like this.

"…Mahé…" France looked up in surprise as that words left her lips. "What is that?"

France regarded her with pride (?) and replied, "It's what Monsieur Picaulte has decided to call this island. How did you know?"

The young lady merely shrugged and made a 'splish-splash' sound in the river with one bare foot. "It just kinda came to me. But it's only one part of me; I can tell. It's not my name. Not yet, anyway. So don't call me that."

"Oh hon hon hon hon!" Alright, I'll stick with _'Ma chère'_ for now."

The silence settled once again, stretched on and she sighed softly. She really thought they had gotten past the point of awkward silences. What had happened? As it usually is with silences, even the smallest sounds are heard. So when she emitted that sigh, France half turned his head towards her and started to speak.

"_Ma chère…_ I really only returned here because my captain's mapping skills are so poor. I was really lucky to have been put on the second voyage here, especially with all the other shit happening." He cleared his throat. "I mean, stuff. But it's still really shitty stuff. Goddamn Austria, Goddamn England…makes my life so difficult."

(Who's Austria?)

He fidgeted and reached into his bag to pull out a piece of cheese. He offered her a corner and she shook her head, trying not to gag at the pungent smell.

"_Roquefort et une fromage bonne. __C'est du Français…_" He trailed off, as if not knowing what to say or how to say it. He bit off a chunk of cheese and chewed slowly before swallowing. He opened his mouth to continue his train of thought.

"So…my crew and I have been ordered to explore the rest of the islands quickly and efficiently before heading back to help with the war. …Which means that I won't be here for long. And I don't know how long it'll be before I can return."

_Oh…_

The young lady refused to look at France and fiddled with the hem of her blue dress. "War sounds like an awful thing." She sniffed. Because it was colder at night, that's why.

France made an attempt at a laugh. "Oh yes, and bad for the complexion, too."

"Hmm… Um, when are you leaving?" Pleasepleasepleaseplease-

"Tomorrow afternoon." _Oh…_

She stood then, rather suddenly, nearly causing France to fall off of the rock in surprise. She turned towards him, waiting for him to stand up. Which he did, rather cautiously. Jeez, what did he expect her to do, attack him?

She cleared her throat and furiously tried to will the creeping blush away from her cheeks.

"Well…I guess I understand. It's tough to be a Nation, right?" France nodded and tilted his head to the side, waiting for her to continue. She did after a slight pause. "Um…I figured out how to say goodbye properly…"

She steeled herself and all but ran up to France and wrapped her arms around his middle, her face pressed down against his shoulder. For her first time ever embracing a living, breathing human/Nation/France, (because he had a category all to himself) she thought she was doing pretty well.

France, of course, being used to this sort of thing, relaxed immediately and placed his hands around her back, rubbing a soothing rhythm.

Slowly, slowly, her shoulders sank and she could almost feel the Frenchman smiling. Whether it was wicked or not…well… she didn't really care at the moment.

It's nice, the young lady thought, to finally be able to hug him without feeling stupid or scared. To just admit to him (and to herself) that she accepted him as a friend. They might not be able to see each other that often, but…but…friendship was nice.

Hmm…that cheese must've been sticking out of his bag at a really weird angle…

They pulled apart after a while (France surreptitiously maneuvered his bag) and the young lady simply couldn't stop grinning a silly, unnecessarily buoyant grin. She stopped, though, when she remembered their previous conversation. War…how awful.

France cupped her chin in his fingers for a brief moment before reaching into his bag to pull out – oh! Another one of those flowers…

"_Une rose pour toi, ma chère. Et merci encore pour ton cadeau._"

She took the…rose - what a pretty name…and smelled its perfume – no scent of Roquefort here! – Really lovely.

She glanced up – thanking him with her eyes and made to walk away, but looked back. Look out for me tomorrow, _d'accord?"_

"Ah~ But of course, _ma chéri."_

She frowned slightly at the change to her pet name – less formal now. She wasn't sure if she liked that… Oh well… It would seem rude to ask him to change it back, she reasoned with herself. She waved back at France who flipped his hair behind his shoulder – there we go – and waved back.

She knew exactly where she would see him off tomorrow…

_AN - Yay! Next chapter done. :)_

**_Translations - _**_Ou es __tu? = Where are you?  
__Et comment ça va, ma chère = And how are you, my dear?  
_Ferme-la, France = Shut up, France  
_Qu'est-ce qui ce passe, France = What's going on, France?  
__Roquefort et une fromage bonne. C'est du Français... = Roquefort is a good cheese. It's made in France...  
__Une rose pour toi, ma chère. Et merci encore pour ton cadeau. = A rose for you. And thanks again for your gift.  
D'accord = okay/alright_

**_______Footnotes - _**_______The Fleur de Lis has been hanging around ever since King Clovis of the Franks used it as a sort-of emblem during the 5th century.  
When France describes his 'top-half' being taken he is refering to 1415 during the Battle of Agincourt - the height of Joan of Arc.  
This was the start of the height of The British Empire. England was very powerful in those days, always gain colonies fairly and unfairly.  
Picaulte's mapping was poor, indeed and he ended up being sent back to Seychelles two years after his first visit. He named the main island Mahé after his patron Mahé de La Bourdonnais - a naval officer for the French East India Trading Company.  
We learned about Roquefort cheese in French class. Apparently there's a legend that includes a shepard and a strange lady in a cave and somehow the shepard got cheese. I can't remember exactly. :P It's mouldy, though. Mmmmm..________._

_______So apparently 'stubbled' isn't a word. I pretty much died of disbelief when the squiggly red line formed underneath it. Stubbled is awesome. Geeze. Become a word, already. _

_______Thanks for the support - reviewsssssss please! Love you!_


	7. Dreamscape

The young woman slept soundly, but woke up earlier than she usually did in preparation for her hike.

She grinned at how lucky she was. France's ship had anchored in a different bay this time and he was in the perfect position to see where she would see him off.

She filled a small bag with food and a larger canteen with water, both of which France had given her. He had given her many small trinkets that would certainly be useful in time or just for simple amusment. She really did find it amazing that the world's people were able to create such wonderful things. A spyglass, books, thermometers, the piano – an instrument that makes the most wonderful music - or so France told her. How she wished she could carry a piano around with her. Just how big were they?

Satisfied that her inventory was complete, she set off into the wilderness. The sun was only just beginning to rise and the trees were illuminated with a ghostly, misty half-light that the young woman simply adored. It showed how pristine and untouched her backyard really was, all hers. For now anyway.

She grimaced as the prospect of people actually coming to stay here. She half-hoped that they wouldn't stay for too long. Even thought she longed for the presence of others, she really wouldn't appreciate her beaches, jungle, hills, individuality to be taken.

Oh well… She'd cross that bridge when she came to it. She pressed on through the bushes, across the grabbing vines and the occasional cavern until the ground started to rise gently underneath her feet.

_« Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques_

_Dormez-vous? __Dormez-vous ? »_

The young woman sang softly to herself as she made her way up the gradually steepening slope. Those were the correct words, France had told her. But why Jacques? Why was he so important as to make an appearance in a song?

She sighed. It kind of reminded her of herself. She certainly didn't feel important. But here she was, on her lonely little island, being admired by France and possibly the Empire England himself. Being a country was substantially harder than merely being placed into a song, though. Lucky Jacques…

She paused to wipe a hand over her slightly sweaty brow. She hadn't taken this hike in a long time – not since she was a little kid. She remembered exploring the island and discovering the strange slope, filled with childish determination to reach the top without stopping.

When she reached the top as a child she remembered being absolutely blown away by the scene that awaited her at the top. The slope created a small ninety degree cliff (France had taught her about degrees) which she scrambled over with some difficulty due to her height. Every piece of foliage cleared to unveil the most spectacular view. She had seen a small bay to her right and kilometers and kilometers of dense green. It was certainly the first time that she had ever experienced just how vast her home really was.

The young woman snorted and shook her head, knowing that her island wasn't really that big in comparison to the world and its co – cont – continents, but it had definitely seemed so to her innocent eyes.

Oh, to be young again…

She gave a cry of recognition as she spied the vertical slope, ascending to the summit. She stopped and reached into her bag to pull out something else France had given her: two equal lengths of red ribbon – 'for her hair' he had said. 'I bet they'll suit you.'

Hmmm… Now what was she supposed to do with these, exactly?

She contemplated for a minute and then divided her hair into two sections – for the two ribbons, she reasoned. She spent a couple of minutes making sure that the length and the amount of hair on each side was even. Then she clumsily tied the first one into a bow, followed by the next lock of hair. She straightened and pulled, twisted and tugged. Huh… This was more difficult than she had thought.

_I guess this will have to do for now._

She gave the ribbons one last prod and proceeded to climb up the slope with a lot less difficulty this time, she noticed.

Again she was awed by how her island and its surroundings complimented themselves. The way the sea sparkled with the fresh rays from the sun (which was now high in the sky) and in turn, these sparkles bounced off of the waves and onto the minuscule grains of sand. The sparkle fire continued to move its way up to the palm leaves and the giant coconuts - into the fur, hair and feathers of all the diverse wildlife – an ongoing chain of beauty.

And it was all hers.

The young woman – for the first time – realized just how lucky she was. To be a part of this unending chain of life. To have France. To be assigned this role. Despite its difficulties, it meant that _she was her country_ and no one else could change that. Well, when she actually became a country that is.

With a start, she remembered that she had told France to look out for her.

She turned towards the bay and was rewarded with the sight of France's ship preparing to set sail into the unknown.

Oh! And there was France – up in the crow's nest – looking up at her through a spyglass.

_No fair…_

She grinned and waved and he repeated her action, setting the spyglass down and grasping two sections of his hair in his hands, before giving her what appeared to be a thumbs-up.

Oh good, he approved. She laughed at how much of a girl he looked like with his hair parted like that.

They stayed like that for a while, just looking at each other until one of the French sailors barked up an angry statement to France who spared him half a glance. He looked back up and blew a kiss in her direction. She couldn't tell, but she could imagine him winking as well. She shook her head and waved enthusiastically straining to get one last look at his face before he climbed down the rigging and onto the deck, all but disappearing amidst the roiling crowd of hurrying sailors.

She watched them work in tandem for a while longer. Then she sat down and brought the food and water from out of her bag. Time for a little picnic. And what better place to have one than on top of her own little world?

I I I

The young woman watched France's ship shrink into the distance and continued to keep watch on the horizon well into the night. And then she realized that she wouldn't be able to make the climb down the mountain at this time of day.

Great. Oh well. She could sleep here. Besides it being uncomfortable and rocky and in the open and, well, a mountain top…it was a fine place to sleep for just one night.

She grinned half-heartedly and rolled her picnic bag into a makeshift pillow. This would do. She closed her eyes and drifted into slumber.

I I I

_She walks quickly down a well-trodden path, different from what she is used to in her jungle home. The path (road?) twists and turns without any discernable pattern and strange things flit in and out of her dream-sight. Things that seem familiar – did France describe these? A large, black shiny structure with legs and white…(keys?) Could this be a piano? _

_Strange structures made of wood and brick. Each has doors and windows. Nameless shadows roam inside the walls._

_Two ships circling each other with…(cannons?) One of the flags belongs to France. The other to England. No – don't shoot! _

_The resulting 'bang' fades into someone playing 'Frère Jacques' on the piano, but she doesn't know who. He has dark brown hair, a blue coat and glasses. He looks up and smiles before a man with red eyes and white hair appears from nowhere and clubs him on the head with a musket, laughing._

The young woman shrieked softly in her sleep.

_She is back on the path, running now, from all the unknown. She sees France fighting with someone – what large eyebrows – she feels as if she should know this man. They have abandoned their guns and have taken to wrestling each other. It would have been comical if she weren't so frightened. The bodies strewn everywhere don't help either._

_She dashes to them, but they disappear before she can reach them._

_She sees the Eyebrow Man standing with a boy her age. They seem so far away from each other even though they're standing a mere two feet away. The Eyebrow Man smiles a strained smile and reaches out, but can't seem to find any hold. "I was looking forward to one of your embraces, America…"_

_The path now stretches straight before her feet, as if leading to her destiny. What will this path bring to her isolated island?_

_She spies a familiar shadow among the strange. It's France. She walks over to him, calling out._

_France? What's going on here? But he turns around and all she can do is leap back in fear. He is smiling the most nefarious smile and his eyes shine with incredible…(lust?) She backs away as he approaches, reaching out to her – and this time, she doesn't reach back._

_He drops the bottle of wine he is holding and when it falls, it and her dreamscape smash into little tiny pieces, accompanied by France's 'Oh hon hon hon hon…"_

The young woman woke up with a scream, loud and raw this time. She looked down at her hands to see that they were shaking and rightly so because – _what was that?_

Her chest rose and fell harshly and her heart beat in an incessant rhythm of fear because she never remembered her dreams and who were those people and what were those things and why were they in her dream – why, why, why?

She gripped a sparse tuft of grass with her right hand, thinking of Dream France and the way he had looked at her like she was a hunk of _Roquefort_ cheese and how she hated that because he was supposed to be her friend, right?

After a while the young lady's breathing calmed and her heart stopped threatening to break out of her chest. She let out a long breath and shuddered, collecting her things for the trip back down the mountain. The sun had first broken through the horizon about an hour ago, she reasoned. The chirping birds were enough to tell her that much.

She kept her mind as blank as possible, so as to not lose her concentration on the difficult climb down. She felt she was doing a pretty good job, actually. No thoughts, no voices, no strange hallucinations…

It wasn't until she had walked all the way to the beach that she had to stifle a sob. Wait. There really wasn't any point of crying when there was no one there to comfort her. Honestly. She wasn't a little girl anymore. No crying. It was just a dream.

She scrambled on top of the Thinking Rock and thought. How could she have seen what she had seen? She didn't know what those four people - whom she didn't even know the names of - looked like. How could her brain conjure those images? Was it because she was a country? (A future country, whatever.) Did she just know?

She sighed laid her forehead on her drawn-up knees. Why was everything so confusing?

That piano had made a lovely sound, though…

The blackness of that beautiful instrument somehow reminded her of the not-so-beautiful blackness of Eyebrow Man's eyebrows. Who was he?

She struggled to remember, eyes clenched in frustration until – oh! France had mentioned that England had really large eyebrows, and yes…they were really big. Huh… Okay then. Wow. Were eyebrows that large even physically possible?

She tried to remember his face from her dream. He had seemed so unsure, so puzzled in the presence of that other boy…man – America. Was this really the powerful and dangerous ruler of so much of the world? Had France been exaggerating? But no… He had seemed so sure about his description.

The young woman thought about all the anxiety, uncertainty, violence and apprehension surrounding those nations and grit her teeth, an exclamation of disgust tearing through her vocal cords.

What was happening to the world?

_AN - well I'm back! Sorry for the lateness. Busy life is busy. :) BUT LOLOLOL THE RIBBONZ! I haven't forgotten those. _

_No translations this time!_

**Footnotes:** _The first spyglass was "invented" (many different opinions there :P) by German lensmaker, Hans Lippershey in 1608._  
_The first thermoscope (like a thermometer - it shows temperature, but without a scale) was built in the 17th century by Galileo Galilei._  
_The first piano was built sometime between 1698 and 1700 by Bartolomeo Christofori of Italy.  
We'll soon find out just how much Empire England didn't admire Seychelles for who she was.  
The mountain Seychelles climbed is called Morne Blanc, on the west coast. It has a height of 700 m (2340 feet).  
Remember, the time-frame is during the_ War of the Austrian Succession._ Prussia kind of hated Austria. _

_Okay! So we've had short appearances from a few different Nations and hopefully we'll see more of England soon-ish. What will Seychelles do now? :P Thanks for the support! _


	8. Identity: Discovered

There weren't as many ships passing by as there used to be, the young woman noted. Strange…

She had found out earlier with the short time that she had had with France that there was a small island to the south-west called _L'Ile de France._ That was where he had been staying during the brief space of time between his visits here.

Right. Brief. Two years is certainly brief.

The interesting thing was that her yearning to see France had dissipated somewhat after that awful dream she had dreamt a few months ago. Thankfully it - or anything similar to it - had never returned. But this didn't stop her fear of sleep during the late evening hours, lest the nightmares returned.

She took out the small mirror that France had given her and studied her reflection for the umpteenth time. With this she could see herself clearly, not like the distortion in the frothy and bubbling river surface.

A girl with a tan, brown eyes and brown hair looked back at her. Light brown, brown and dark brown. All she had was brown. Thank goodness for her blue dress and red ribbons. Those were nice.

Wait, what? Since when had she ever cared about her appearance? Why should that even be important?

She looked at the mirror and contemplated smashing it on a rock, but thought better of it - lest an animal ate it, or something.

She wondered what kinds of animals lived in France.

I I I

_L'Ile de France._ She remembered France boasting about how it helped create an easier travel route to India where the French East India Company was 'flourishing,' as France had put it. The young woman had actually caught herself pouting (and stopped immediately, of course) and she certainly wasn't jealous – she was just…jealous.

But more than four years had passed since his last visit, so he certainly wasn't living there now. Wrestling with England… how juvenile.

This particular memory reminded her of that dream she had had the day after France had left. There were other Nations in it... Ha! Now France would have to tell her about these Nations. He had probably even let slip a couple of these names when he talked to himself – which happened a lot. More than was probably healthy.

She sighed bemusedly and listed the Nations she knew of off in her head. There were: England, Austria, Prussia, France and America. And that one playing the piano who she didn't know the name of. Oh, and that white haired man who…well. Were they already in her list? How many Nations were there anyways?

She threw her hand up in frustration and scoffed, hating how much she didn't know. There were so many glorious things that islands in the middle of the ocean just weren't privy to. Like apples. Mmmm… France had described its tart, juicy taste – but what good was that if she didn't even know what that meant? What the heck is 'tart' anyways?

She leapt to her feet and stomped off to a nice, particularly soft patch of sand. She wanted to draw a piano (she decided that the big black thing in her dream was a piano) and pretend to play it to the tune of Frère Jacques. So there. She could pretend.

It just wasn't good enough, though.

I I I

It was on the one of the dawns of 1754 that the young woman woke up feeling strange. Not sick, just strange. Like she was a spirit – not really seeing, not really feeling, just _existing. _

She rubbed her eyes, slowly, slowly and rose to her knees – crawling out of her cave and then getting to her feet. She walked down the path, dragging her feet, eyes half-closed and not caring. Why wasn't she caring again?

Who cares? She didn't care. She didn't know why she didn't care, but today was strange. Let's just leave it at that and maybe everything would be alright soon. She lifted her arms out and brushed them against some over hanging leaves, trance-like.

"Haha… big leafy things…orange ball…brown-nuts. I was so, so, uneducated." She yawned and for some reason that was really funny, so she laughed and laughed, but that hurt her sides, so she had to stop. She would just trust her feet because they seemed to be moving on their own today.

The soft vegetation started to slope gently downwards and soon gave way to slightly coarser sand granules and then to the wet ocean. Which was clear. And didn't really change colours.

She giggled. "Water changing colours."

She stood there for a long, long time – blue dress and tied hair waving lazily in the breeze. Her blue dress waved under the blue sky and the, the clear? Blue? Hmmm… The waves lapped at her feet. And for what must have been the first time, she truly felt at one with her surroundings. They were a part of her.

But she wasn't making that much sense in her mind because she had been a part of this land for – what – two and a half centuries now (and what was going on?) – her mind was kinda fuzzy, too, so maybe that had something to do with it and – and she decided she just wasn't going to think anymore.

So she stared out into the horizon. And she smiled because she was content in the way that simply existing is enough to make someone incredibly lucky.

That is, until a fish jumped out of the water. A fish which the red rays of the dying – no, newly born sun - (the sun doesn't really die, silly) reflected off of and onto the red ribbons in her hair.

How familiar. It had happened before, right? Just the opposite time of day…

"Red sky at morning, sailors take warning - uh oh…"

She decided to _not _walk over to the Thinking Rock because that would seem too cliché. Nah, she was fine here. In her home. In the water, lapping, lapping, _plouf, plouf. _Ha! French. French was weird. _What other languages…oh, never mind._

She was so at peace, she decided. Nothing could be more calm and wonderful.

Until something flitted through her consciousness and out an ear (because where else would it go?)

Her jaw twitched.

_Whisperwhisper._

Twitch. What was that? No more peace?

_S-whisper-s… _Now she was just curious. Come again please, voice?

A long pause, too long. Then –

_**SEYCHELLES! **_

She shouted in surprise and stepped back, having assumed that the voice would have whispered again. Which is saying something since people don't usually tend to assume that voices are speaking to them in their heads in the first place. Huh.

Could this be…?

In an instant, her head seemed to clear and soon what seemed like the entire island was whispering 'Seychelles, Seychelles, Seychelles,' over and over and the wind was picking up and the fish had long since disappeared, but the trees were swaying and the sun vanished under the cloud line and the young woman was laughing and laughing and crying in delight because, because-

It was her! Seychelles! It, it was her name, it had to be! What else could feel so right?

She twirled around and around, taking in everything around her: the blue sea, the yellow sky, her red ribbons, the white sand and the green palm trees all blending together to welcome her name unto _her_ and – wow! What a feeling!

She had never been so elated in her life! Not when France had returned, not as a small child, but now! She finally had her name.

"Seychelles." The word rolled smoothly off of her tongue and she closed her eyes and beamed up at the sky, steadily growing darker and the memory of all the colours, all the unity, all the perfection flashed before her tightly shut eyes.

"I am Seychelles. That is who I am. Forever." Even the wind couldn't steal her whispered words away.

"Thank you…"

Her eyes snapped open and she whooped in sheer joy. She couldn't wait to tell France!

I I I

Sometime in mid 1754, Seychelles _(Seychelles!)_ was walking down the beach, munching on a lump of fish meat that she had cooked the previous evening.

This time after she killed an animal for sustenance, she would give thanks for its sacrifice. She didn't know why, really – it had just seemed right. Now that she could properly relate to everything around her_**.**_

Every so often she would simply stop what she was doing and touch a tree or splash in the water or let the sand run through her fingers. She would re-acquaint herself with the island. And she loved it. Was this how all nations felt when they received their name? This invincible pride and love for what they embodied?

Seychelles smiled. She found she was smiling a lot, actually. Her jaw would probably freeze in a smiling position if she kept this up.

She shook her head and looked up – and nearly choked.

There were two ships in the distance – flying French colours! Could it be France?

She swallowed her last mouthful and tore off down the beach, to where the granitic cliffs started rising from the sand. She climbed up the sides at a furious pace and finally stood, panting at the top in order to get a better view.

"Dammit!" She had forgotten her spyglass in the cave. "Oops!" A hand few to her mouth, delayed. "I mean: 'darn it.'" A pause. "No - I don't, France is back and I forgot my damn spyglass!"

She groaned and considered running through the jungle to grab it, but thought better of it. The ships would have probably arrived by the time she came back. She could wait. She had waited for about ten years after all. Stupid wars…

So she sat. And fidgeted. And positively shook with anticipation. France was back!

I I I

As time passed, Seychelles eventually came to rest on her stomach, legs crossed at the ankles and her hands hung off of the fifty foot cliff overhanging the sea.

The ships meandered their way past the rock face and off into the sandy shoal – taking their time, the lazy Frenchmen.

She watched them appear slowly from various nooks and crannies – making their way slowly to their assigned jobs. Which was strange, really. Usually they were extremely lively and not to mention colourful. But Seychelles couldn't really hear any shouts or curses. Weren't they glad to be back?

She puzzled over their lack of enthusiasm for a while. Too long of a while – they really were taking their sweet time to disperse, weren't they?

The captain came to the mainmast and gathered the sailors together for what must have been a meeting of some sort. They huddled together for a short while before they turned away and – surprisingly – roamed back below deck. The captain then walked to the port side and cupped his hands around his mouth – shouting something to the other captain. Seychelles looked over to the second captain and – oh, it was France. Interesting.

"I guess it's not that surprising that France would captain his own ship," she mused out loud.

Oh how she wished she had brought her spyglass…

No matter. The captain had given France a two fingered salute and was waddling downstairs to accomplish who-knows-what captain business, leaving France alone on deck. He stood for a while (she couldn't really make out his facial expression) and eventually made his way down to a mooring line, his footsteps slow and cautious and not at all like his usual springy steps.

He poked at the line like it was made out of jellyfish stingers before resigning himself and hoisting himself down onto the sand somewhat ungraciously. Weird.

His feet landed in the water with hardly a splash and he dusted (most likely) invisible dust particles off of his perfectly blue and flamboyant coat. _Still so vain… _She grinned exuberantly as she watched him walk up the beach and into the jungle.

_Odd,_ thought Seychelles and the smile slid off of her face as quickly as it had appeared. Is he looking for me in my cave? _Shouldn't he know where I am?_

She contemplated this for a minute before shrugging it off and excusing this strange behavior as one of France's crazy moods. And, she knew a shortcut into the trees and onto the path France had most likely taken from the cliff. She'd find him and tell him the good news!

And this time…she would be the one doing the surprising.

_AN - Oh. My. God. I am so sorry. I haven't been able to post ANY Hetalia fics for over two weeks now. I was randomly able to update BoP, but then the error messages came up again. I really hope you guys are still with me and that this ablility to update continues *cross fingers* BUT LO AND BEHOLD - CHAPTER 8! I love you guys - thanks for the support. :)_

_**Footnotes -** _

_French East India company was founded in 1664 for some good ol' competition between the Dutch and the British. During the time mentioned is was most certainly not flourishing, but in a state of Bankruptcy and was abolished about 12 years later. :P But we'll let France have his denials._

_Mirrors have been around for, like evar, guys - 2000 B.C and beyond. :P_

_Can't really grow apples in the tropics. I don't think so, anyway. :D_

_Soooo! France returned to the islands in 1754, where Captain Corneille Nicholas Murphy named the largest island (Mahé) Séchelles - after Viscount Jean Moreau de Séchelles, Finance Minister of France at the time. I have written her name in the Anglisized way because that's her official name. She just knows. Like Japan just knew his name as Nihon. Hurr. Hope that's okay with you guys. _

_There were also two ships that returned. Captain Morphey for one, and... France for the other! _

_Mahé (and most of Seychelles) is a Granitic Island, leftover from the super(ish)-continent Gondwana = big, rocky cliffs. _

_OMFG SEYCHELLES WAS ANIMATED! But she really shouldn't be so white. I wrote this before the episode - she stays tan. _

_Also - " That one playing the piano," and "The whit haired man" is Austria and Prussia, respectively - but she didn't know their names, so I had to repeat them. Sorry if that confused people._

_Hope you enjoyed and so sorry for the delay! 3 3_


	9. Running, Running

Seychelles jumped nimbly onto the soft ground, her knees bending slightly underneath her. She paused to breathe in the smell of disturbed vegetation before setting off in a light jog to search for France's whereabouts.

All the while she thought of the things that had happened to her over the seemingly infinite stretch of ten years. How she had started off with that awful dream and ended up with the discovery of her true name. She had wondered briefly where it had come from, of course, when the adrenaline rush had worn off. But after a little while she had realized that there was really no way for her to know – seeing as she had literally nothing from the outside world to help her answer that question. Save for France. So she decided to wait and have him answer it.

And now he was here and _not fighting _and she felt light and fluffy and could dance for joy, but didn't really want to because that would be weird, right?

She wondered how well France's people fought. Were they strong and courageous? With France's incessant boasting, they must be. Seychelles couldn't wait for the stories.

Suddenly, she heard movement in the clearing to her right. There was a wall of vines hanging down in front of her face, but she knew of the clearing through the hundreds of years of exploring she had done.

She brushed aside a small clump and her eyes were met with the sight of France pacing to and fro, hat clenched and twisting back and forth in his hands and looking considerably less magnificent and sparkly than usual. His facial expression was fixed in an exceedingly large pout and every now and again he would make the most ridiculously pathetic noises.

Seychelles watched for a minute, unsure whether to be concerned or just plain disappointed in France's lack of bravado. She mulled it over for a bit before deciding to just let her presence be known. She really didn't know why she had waited so long anyway.

She strode out from behind the vines and called out to the idiot in front of her.

"Hey, France!"

He jumped about a foot in the air and simultaneously pivoted to face her as he fell back down to Earth, somehow making what should have been an awkward landing half-graceful.

And then he smiled and held out his arms. And Seychelles didn't even care that his smile seemed strained or that he wasn't showing off his perfect teeth because France was back and she was running, running straight into his arms and he scooped her up and swung her around and around and around. Her mind flashed back to a scene in a dream she had once where England didn't receive the hug he was expecting from America. How could one live without such comforting contact? Then he was laughing and she was laughing and everything was okay, she thought, and she even kind of, sort of blushed when he set her down and made a show of taking her hand and kissing it – extra long this time.

"_Ma chèri," _he murmured and straightened, smiling a tight-lipped smile.

She looked into his eyes (she was only about ten centimeters shorter than him now) and was slightly taken aback at how close they were. And how focused France was. He was doing that thing again – scrutinizing. And somehow managing to look quite beguiling at the same time. She fidgeted and he started slightly and took a step back, clearing his throat.

"Ah~! My apologies, _ma chèri_ - for not visiting more often, but…wars are meant to be fought and with my superior strength and complete lack of fear…well." He appeared lost for a second before the light returned to his eyes. "How have you been these last few years without me?"

Seychelles laughed somewhat hesitantly and nudged him lightly in the arm. "Perfectly fine, thank you. Without you things are much better." She had expected France to play pretend and fake a sense of hurt, but instead he forced a laugh and mumbled something under his breath that Seychelles couldn't hear.

What was wrong with him? Maybe a nice talk would settle some things between them.

"Um. Come with me, France. Let's talk." She grabbed his hand firmly and led the way to the south-east – towards a scenic viewpoint that she had just discovered within the last twenty years or so. They would be comfortable there.

France seemed slightly surprised at the contact and followed without a struggle. Or a word. Which was even weirder.

They walked hand in hand for about ten minutes before reaching a large, circular opening partially hidden by the angle of the rocks around it in the now stony ground. France made an appreciative sound in the back of his throat and Seychelles shivered for some reason.

"This is such a cool place; I can't believe I haven't shown you before."

She led the way inside and the air became steadily cooler in their damp surroundings. After a few seconds, the tunnel opened up into a round-ish cavern, black and foreboding. The walls were perfectly smooth and small grains of quartz and other minerals would sparkle once in a while, if the light was right.

Seychelles looked back to see France grinning at his surroundings. She was sure he had seen his fair share of caves before. But…

"Just wait. It gets a lot better." She tugged on his hand and led him deeper in.

They walked forward again and the cavern reformed into the same cylindrical formation. It grew gradually smaller and smaller until it almost brushed the sides of their shoulders, and did France really have to be that close –

Until the tunnel suddenly ended and the Nation and future Nation stumbled out onto a wide ledge of beautiful formations – made out of the same smooth, somewhat sparkly rock of the cavern. There were rocky 'chairs' and seats and flat surfaces to lean on, sleep on, sit on and anything else anyone could imagine.

"The best part is the view." Seychelles gestured around to the ocean in front of them – stretching as far as the eye could see and long strips of perfect beaches stretching out to accompany it. Somehow the tunnel had brought them up and up to present them with this masterpiece of nature.

France looked out into the mass of blue for a long while. "It's gorgeous." The slightly breathless words seemed to melt off of his tongue.

"Uh…yup. Thanks." That was intelligent.

France's eyes seemed to drag away from the ocean and onto Seychelles. There was that strained smile again. Where was her France?

"So – what was it that you wanted to talk about, _ma chèri?" _

Right. "First of all, you can stop calling me that because – because – I finally know my name now! It's Seychelles!"

It was as if her words had reawakened the France that was sleeping inside this shell. His usual, falsely omnipotent smile adorned his features and his face seemed to glow with a new light.

"_Aha~! C'est fantastique vraiment, ma - oh hon hon hon – Séchelles_."

And with that he grasped her hand and twirled her around, expertly maneuvering their bodies so as not to hit any stray rocks and she couldn't help but emit a surprised exclamation of laughter at his sudden playfulness.

But when the twirl ended, she found herself pressed up against his chest and wasn't really sure of how she had gotten there. And he was smiling above her as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I see you are still wearing the ribbons I gave you, Séchelles." His voice was almost a purr and the young woman was drawn to it like a powerful magnet. "How…thoughtful."

She was drawn and immobile and he was confident and unmoving in whatever he was about to do, but something in his voice sparked a far off memory – a frightening memory of lust and hunger and not France, or was it France – ?

"_Arêtes-la,"_ she whispered and France looked confused – just a little.

"_S'il vous plait."_ This time she found her voice and forcibly removed herself from France's loose (and certainly _not_ extremely comforting, _in the least_) grasp.

He looked at her wearily, all trace of his normal self gone like the ever changing waves of the ocean. Then he sighed and collapsed onto a rock, head in his hands.

Seychelles stiffened in alarm at the sudden display of weakness; France never showed weakness. Did she really mean that much to him? Or was it the war? Pushing aside her insecurities, the young lady stepped quickly over to the Nation and gently removed his hands from his face. He wasn't crying, thank goodness, but when he looked up at her, she really had a chance to properly view his face. And she didn't like it one bit.

France had bags under his eyes and his usually healthy looking skin seemed gaunt, stretched and he hadn't been shaving very well. That is, he hadn't been shaving very artistically. His blond hair looked ashen in the sunlight and it drooped about his face in a way that 'normal France' wouldn't be caught dead with.

She closed her eyes for a few seconds and when she opened them again, they shone with a determined glow. She would get some answers. The answers that _she_ wanted.

She knelt in front of him, pointedly removing her hands from his.

"France…what's the matter with you? And don't you dare try and hide behind your romantics - I know what that means now." Somehow her words seemed more juvenile than she had hoped for.

France sighed again and took a long time to finally speak.

"The world is a cruel place, Séchelles. Devoid of love and passion. Oh, how much better the world could be if mankind simply _loved _one another."

Seychelles considered smacking him on the head for continuing to rant on love instead of answering her question. But he opened his mouth again and she grudgingly let him continue. Maybe there _was_ some sense floating around in his big head.

"The Austrian Succession all started due to lack of love, you know. Which is odd because Maria-Thérèsa is so beautiful… Anyway – the fighting was no problem for my, ah, strong and powerful French forces. We, eh, totally blew them away with our, um, might. And Prussia hardly did anything."

Seychelles chose not to comment on the comedic shakiness of his grin. Whatever. But soon his grin dissipated and his eyes remained downcast.

"One thing led to another and soon enough, stupid England had to take it to another level. I mean, come on! Always… He doesn't… He shouldn't…"

The young woman waited. And waited. And grew impatient. And scoffed. "_What_ shouldn't he be doing, France?"

France fixed her with a glare and pouted. "He's always fighting with me to take my colonies away and it's getting extremely annoying, the fool. "_Mon dieu."_

The anger slid off of Seychelles' face and her shoulders sagged slightly. _So he's worried about me?_

France continued to pout. "I hate fighting wars, _ma chèri_ – even though I'm so good – you know that. I especially hate fighting when I actually like whoever or whatever it is that I'm fighting for. Because then it matters."

Seychelles twitched at the use of her old pet name. But that's all France had ever called her in the past, so she let it slide. She also liked the fact that he used it on her alone – oh, wait, um, no she didn't…actually. Maybe he used it on others. Hehe. Silly thoughts.

"Are you, uh, fighting over me now? Is that why you're worried," she asked quietly.

It took France a while to resurface from whichever memories had been occupying his vision and answer her. But it wasn't very satisfying.

"_Ah~ non._ Not yet, I mean – I really don't know, but it's not you."

Or very nice.

Seychelles crossed her arms defiantly and – no – she wasn't copying France's pathetic pout, she was just frowning. Slightly.

"England is declaring war over in North America now and…who knows how long he'll be swinging his big, ugly fists at me? At my colony?" France paused awkwardly and tried to find the words to continue. "I just…I might not be around when you think you need me, that's all."

By now, Seychelles was just about fuming. She slowly rose to her feet and backed away from France.

"And what's that supposed to mean? 'When I think I need you?' I'm not even a colony yet; I'm supposed to have a father figure! Or a, a, a something-figure. And here you are gallivanting off to who knows where, fighting wars, and sailing all over the world while I'm stuck here and for all I know, you could be eating that disgusting cheese or drinking that wine the whole time. I don't know anything France! I need guidance! I need someone who knows, who understands, who can see, who – who can be my friend. I need a friend…"

But was what they had really friendship? No, shut up! What else was there, anyways?

She turned sharply so her back was facing France, removing all of him from her sight because he was confusing her when he was supposed to be giving her answers – and she just didn't understand. She wasn't even sure why she was so angry. Maybe ten years apart was a little too much time…

She heard him get up and move towards her and _almost _darted away when he placed a hand on her shoulder. They stayed like that for a while, Seychelles resisting the ridiculous urge to cry as France spoke.

"I'm a Nation, Séchelles. I and many, many others are charged with burdens that no human has known, or will know. I'm usually a bit more, ah, flippant with my duties, but…I can't ignore them. And I know you've been patient. But keep waiting and your chance will come to shine _just like me._ But right now, my charge lies with the protection of Canada. And I care for him too much to let anything else get in my way."

On any other day, Seychelles would have been moved by such a speech, especially from the often crude France. But now she was consumed by, by – was it jealousy? – by a burning envy that just wouldn't go away. It writhed inside of her and made its way quickly to her brain, cutting off all logical thought. Which was probably why her next words were so harsh.

She shrugged France's hand off of her shoulder and made her way towards the tunnel opening.

"Fine, go back to precious Canada. Personally, I hope England gets him."

She muttered these words with as much contempt as she could muster, a quiet hate seething in her gut and she squeezed her way into the tunnel – past the cavern and into the second enclosure. By the time she had reached the entrance, she was running, away, away, away like the coward she was and wiping furiously at her streaming eyes – completely and totally ashamed of herself.

Why had she said that? Those words were probably the last things France needed to hear. That was so unlike her…what was happening?

She shook her head and continued on, forcing her way through the undergrowth.

She supposed she was being a huge idiot. But how did France expect her to understand him and his – his 'burdens' when she wasn't even a country, not even a colony yet? Why did he have to come into her life and introduce all these wonderful, scary, tempting, crazy, awesome things years before she would even be claimed? And why did she care _so damned much?_

Seychelles was so intent on possibly unlocking the door to this new universe that she almost ran straight into a group of French explorers roaming about.

She squeaked and dived into a large fern, the Frenchmen probably mistaking her for a giant tortoise or something.

She waited for them to pass, counting down slowly from ten so she wouldn't accidentally take out her frustration on any of the unsuspecting sailors. But instead of marching (dragging their feet) onward, they chose to take a break and idly plopped themselves down on a patch of ground in front of her.

She cursed mentally. _Lazy Frenchmen! _No matter how quietly she moved, she would most definitely disturb the fern in which she was squatting in a way that certainly didn't suggest a giant tortoise. She had no choice but to lay low for however long it took for these bozos to get back to work.

She edged herself slowly down to her knees to eavesdrop, thankful of her lifelong knowledge of plants and their breaking points.

She sat. Miffed. And very upset over her recent shouting match with France. Listening to French sailors talk about how pretty their girlfriends were. Typical.

"France is very lucky to have discovered these islands," one of the sailors spoke up after a slight pause.

Seychelles' head snapped up and it took her a couple of seconds to realize that they were talking about France itself, not _him._ But it seemed like the same thing…almost.

"_Oui, mon ami._ I just hope the shit happening in North America doesn't make its way over here. Seychelles is just so great; it would be a shame to lose it," a finely mustached man spoke in a deep voice.

"And have you seen those coconuts? They're giant asses, I swear!" The entire group chortled merrily and proceeded to talk about her 'giant ass coconuts.' So what if they were shaped…well, awkwardly? They were the biggest France had ever seen, and that had to count for something.

Wait… The biggest he had… and he had laughed… Stupid France.

Seychelles put her head in her hands and couldn't help but allow a small smile of sheer disbelief flit across her face. When she looked up, she saw the group getting slowly to their feet – much stretching and joking and general laziness included. As the last chuckle, shout and/or holler of: "Well, _something_ just grabbed my butt" floated away, the young lady checked for any stragglers and – seeing none – she leapt to her feet and all but flew down one of her many makeshift pathways back to the cave.

The man with the mustache had been talking about her and her connection with France and if the _country _wanted her then surely – _surely – _the being wanted her too, Canada just came first because he was already a colony - and _why was she so stupid?_

She would apologize, Seychelles decided – with all of her heart. She didn't really understand what it was like to have multiple relationships because the only person she was really close to was France. Really…she just needed some time to think these things through. Maybe storming off into the jungle after a stupid, unnecessary fight wasn't the best method, though.

She reached the mouth of the cave and it swallowed her whole, as if inviting her to mess it all up again and ruin any chance of friendship she had left. But she braved the mouth of the cave, the unknown fears of failure because it was France. Simply France. She reached the cavern and nearly bumped into a ridge in the rock, half twirling in the air to avoid it. She squeezed into the second snakelike tunnel – almost tearing her blue dress – one ribbon untied and trailing desperately from her hair –

"France!"

She burst through the second entrance-way to meet the smell of the sea. She looked left and right, forming her apology in her mind.

But the Nation wasn't there anymore.

_AN - Hey, gaiz t'is chapter nine. Hope you liked!_

_**Footnotes -** The cave is made up, but there are many cliffs in Seychelles, as I had mentioned previously. T'would be really cool if there were caves lie that, though. But there are only underwater caves that are really significant in size._

_Also - random thought. There aren't many major rivers in Seychelles, so if anyone was wondering, the river/waterfall she was sitting by would have been relatively small. _

_Have I mentioned this? Um... Well, in any case - the reason France spells/thinks her name differently is because she's named after a person and Seychelles hasn't been anglicized yet. But it will be, so that's how she knows it. It still has the same pronunciation. _

_So... The Austrian Succession. Oh boy, I'll try and summarize it in as little as possible. It basically all started when Maria-Theresa, Archduchess of Austria, was unable to succeed to the Hapsburg (royal house in Austria) throne because she was a woman, and laws back then disallowed women to have any real power whatsoever. So Prussia, a new and quite intelligent empire, decided to take advantage of this and take over Silesia - Austrian territory. France eventually joined them along with Bavaria forces; England joined Prussia just to fight France, yadda yadda. France was doing alright at first, but then they kind of failed a lot, and argued with the Bavarians, and made no moves, and asked around for help while Prussia was a boss and ate things. Figuratively, of course. But then the French went and fought the Belgian and the Dutch and won battles 'n stuff. Then Prussia succeeded in winning Silesia and France went to war with Britain in North America. Coolbeanz. That's what France has been up to. _

_So this is the time between the Austrian Succession and the Seven Years War over Canada. 1756-ish. _

_And, haha! The Coco de Mer is a palm tree found only on Seychelles and resembles a "woman's disembodied buttocks." Ew, wikipedia, ew. But yeah. No wonder France likes the giant "bum seed." XD_

_Seychelles is also known for its Giant Tortoises - explorers would literally take them from the islands as supplies for voyages. _

_And that's all I can think of. _

_**Translations -** Arêtes-la = stop that. _  
_ C'est fantastique vraiment ... = That's truly fantastic... _

_Yeah, pretty much! Thanks for the support! _


	10. Identity: Tested

Seychelles stomped her foot on the ground, gasping in pain when she realized just how hard the rock actually was. If frustration and anger and sorrow were like the Northern Lights France had told her about, her sky would be swarming with furiously swirling colours.

It wasn't like she was worried about France…for surely he would get over it like he always did. But…that was still pretty rude of her. That was the only reason why she wanted to apologize, anyway.

_What should I do?_

She really had no idea where France could have gone. Where he went when he was feeling sad, abandoned, misunderstood… Seychelles shook her head quickly, trying to rid her mind of feelings that she could come back to later when there wasn't another huge problem staring her in the face.

Maybe she could leave a message for him. But…

It was then – for the first time – Seychelles realized that she couldn't write. Not a thing. She didn't know what made sounds or what those strange symbols were or that thoughts and spoken words could be written down. She had never needed to. That's why she never knew what those strange carvings were on the ships – France had always told her their names. If she couldn't talk, she was utterly useless.

_What should I do?_

Seychelles looked down in distress and frowned when her eyes alighted upon one of her hair ribbons lying on the stone. Feeling the right side of her hair and confirming that it was her ribbon that had fallen; she knelt and retrieved it from the rough stone - folding it so it made a rough rectangular shape. She placed it on a shelf-like outcrop of rock and searched for any trace amounts of dust and sand. Having located a small pile, she scooped some up and spread it evenly beside her ribbon.

Hmm…she didn't have anything blue to serve as the third and last part of her flag. Oh well. The rock was a blue-grayish colour… He'd be able to tell what it was. She collected a few stray pieces of dried seaweed and arranged them as the outer walls of the French flag.

She sighed at her slightly horrendous rendition of France's flag and turned around, making her way out of the cave and hoping against hope that France would find it and understand that her loyalties still lay with him. Maybe if he forgave her, he could teach her how to write. Or just get back to his normal self. And complain endlessly about how she should know better than to mutilate his flag and try it with England's instead. Seychelles didn't really care as long as she could find a way to apologize properly for what she had said.

She made her way slowly back to her cave, on the lookout for any French sailors – especially France. By the time she made it back, the sun had set and it was getting quite dark.

She chanced one more look over her shoulder, and seeing no one, she ducked her head and made her way into the cave.

She crawled into her customary corner and shifted slightly to make herself more comfortable. But every time she closed her eyes, images of earlier would flare behind her eyelids, like the tears she knew were lurking somewhere.

She shifted constantly, trying not to be crushed by the overwhelming sense of guilt and horror filling her mind. So instead of picturing faux-France, hurt, confused, misunderstood, she switched those images around and thought of the true France, funny, annoying, flamboyant, weird, passionate…

Slowly, slowly the unbearable weight became somewhat more bearable and Seychelles drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

I I I

She awoke with a start to birds cawing loudly and the afternoon sun streaming in through the cracks in her humble, rocky abode. She must have been awake during the night longer than she had thought. She stretched and slunk out of the cave, body heavy with fatigue and the guilt slinking slowly back to greet her.

She tried her best to shake it off. Thinking about such dreary thoughts and not acting for the better would get her nowhere. So she rose to her feet, dusted herself off, and marched through the jungle until she came to her special, secluded spot.

When she arrived at the scenic lookout and saw that the flag remained untouched, she wondered belatedly if France remembered how to find this place. This caused some more genuine fretting, worrying, and shifting of feet. But surely France would remember. He had to.

So Seychelles left it at that, trusting her instincts and exiting the cave once more. If France wasn't there and if she couldn't find him on the island, then he must be on one of the ships, Seychelles decided. She would find him. Even if she had to sleep outside by the rocks facing the ships every day for as long as it took for France to emerge. So she did just that.

When she reached the beach, she made herself comfortable amongst a spiral patterned rock formation and sat. And waited. And refused to move. France would have to answer for her if she got caught. _She _was actually trying to make amends with the stubborn idiot. And where was he? Probably moping around on one of the ships.

Seychelles' theory was confirmed when, the next day, after having kept vigil and sleeping rather uncomfortably against the rock; France didn't appear from the jungle. No matter how depressed France was, Seychelles knew without a doubt that he wouldn't sleep in the jungle. And since she had seen neither hide nor hair of his pretty face, she knew that he was stupidly wallowing away on one of those stupid ships.

On the third night of her vigil-keeping and awkward sleeping, she semi-awoke to hands – fingers even - sweeping softly, ever so softly over her cheeks, her forehead, her nose and mouth, but she dared not turn around in fear that she would scare him away. For those delicate hands were France's, no doubt about it.

The rhythm was so smooth and soothing that Seychelles drifted unwillingly back into a light slumber. When she woke up properly in the morning, she was alone.

One the sixth day of her vigil-keeping and slightly less awkward sleeping, Seychelles spontaneously jumped up and stalked into the trees, planning to walk around for a long while to keep herself from going insane. She wandered around, around, around, alone and isolated and guilt-ridden and _she just didn't know what to do anymore! _

She finally came to rest in the same clearing where she had met France a week before…after not seeing him for ten years.

She meandered into the middle and crossed her arms over her chest staring up into the blue, blue sky. Blue like France's eyes…

"_Bonjour, mademoiselle."_

Seychelles snapped out of her daydream and whipped around, coming face to face with a stranger. A French stranger. Not trusting herself to answer, she glanced down and her eyes widened in surprise at the captain's symbol pinned onto his lapel. Her heart beat a million miles a minute – _Does he know? Who I am? Has he caught me? What's he going to do? What should I do? – _and he studied her for a while(what was with the French and their scrutinizing?) before taking a step back and opening his mouth to speak.

"_Salut," _he spoke with a certain kindness to his voice and Seychelles' shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. If he wasn't freaking out by now, then he probably knew who she was. _"Je suis le commander pour cette expédition, Corneille Morphey et tu serais…Séchelles, non?__"_

He stopped talking and Seychelles, belatedly realizing he had done so, hastened to answer. She nodded her head kind of dumbly, but she was surprised! When a random French character walked right behind her and talked to her - that was an excuse to not be quite on top of things.

"_Vous avez raison. Je m'appelle Seychelles. Um…Pourquoi êtes-vous ici?" _She spoke politely, not wanting to aggravate not just a captain, but a _French captain _of all people.

He raised a perfectly trimmed eyebrow at her, indignant – nothing new there – and folded his arms across his chest. "Did you do something to Francis?"

Seychelles cocked her head to the side. Did she hear correctly?

"I'm sorry, but did you say 'Francis?' Who's that?"

He stared at her for a couple of seconds, before starting rather violently and uncrossing his arms to tap at the side of his head condescendingly.

"My apologies miss. I meant France. Have you done anything to France?"

Seychelles grimaced and shuffled her feet, looking down at them. "Well…we did have an argument…sort of. And I was being dumb, really dumb and said something mean." Her head snapped up suddenly and her eyes blazed. "It's not like I'm trying to avoid him! I've been sitting out on the beach every day for almost a week now. And he hasn't let me apologize. I just don't know what to do, Mister Morphey."

Corneille scoffed, rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose – posture airy and dainty. "Ah…stupid Francis. He's such a drama queen." He removed his fingers from his nose and stared pointedly at her. "You know, he's been holed up in my ship for the last six days and he's forcing me to do all of his work. I have no time to explore when there I have other men to do it for me. And the charts have to be done and war plans have to be made. It's stressful, young lady. Thank God I'm not a Nation."

He looked slightly confused as if catching himself rambling. Which he kind of was. He straightened and waggled a finger at her.

"If I force Francis to get off of his ass and join you, will you promise me that you'll get him to do his work again?"

Seychelles nodded, her brown hair bouncing around her chest. "Of course, Captain."

Corneille Morphey nodded and stifled a yawn. "Yes, that's great – thank you Séchelles."

He turned around and as he reached the tree line, he called back over his shoulder: "Oh, and good luck with everything. France has received a great gift, you know. Make sure you two treasure the time you have together."

And Seychelles was left to stand there, staring after him – the French captain that had randomly come in and out of her life. 'Treasure the time together…'

Right. Maybe French-ies could actually be genuinely touching.

And with a weak, but solid smile on her face, Seychelles started jogging towards the beach, but stopped in mid step and swiveled around the other way. She'd give captain Morphey an hour or so to coax France out of wherever he was. So in the meantime, she thought, she would check the cave one last time, in case somehow, she had missed France walking. Which was highly unlikely - seeing as she had spent six long and trying days staring at nothing but ship.

Whatever. She needed something to do and this would suffice for now.

She was jogging lightly, taking her time and kept looking back every now and then, half expecting France to pop out of nowhere.

She contemplated what to say to him. If his captain had the gall to call his own country a drama queen, then maybe France would just snap out of it. But…he _had_ been cooping himself up in a ship alone with his misery for almost a week. That had to say something.

She swept the stray locks of hair away from her eyes, used to having both sides tied back by her ribbons – one of which was still in the cave.

She sighed and slowed to a walk, thoughts drifting. Canada was probably a really nice guy. France had every right to fight over someone he…loved? Hmm… Did he love her too? Of course he did, always mouthing on about all the love in the world. He'd have to be crazy not to support his own morals.

That, of course, raised the question that she hadn't really asked herself in, well, ever. Did she love him? In which way? Were there multiple ways to love? What were the differences that defined relationships? _Why didn't she know anything?_

She stubbed her toe on a rock outside the cave entrance and cursed lightly, not realizing the amount of distance she had travelled. She ducked her head and entered the cave, continuing to think about…things.

The problem was that she couldn't really ask France about things like this because he was too…deceitful in a way. Like he was constantly wearing a mask that disguised his true thoughts, condescending or not – she couldn't ever tell.

But if he never forgave her, then she'd never be able to look him in the eye, let alone ask him slightly personal questions.

Damn. She certainly wasn't 'treasuring her time' with France to the best of her ability now, was she?

She cleared her throat softly for no reason and stepped out of the darkness and into the light. The first thing she saw was France's back, hands at his side and her ribbon dangling and moving softly in the breeze from his right one.

She froze and covered her mouth with her hands. Had he heard her? She hadn't planned anything to say – she certainly hadn't expected France to actually be here! Had he somehow made his way here when she was speaking to the captain?

Before Seychelles could come to a decision as to what to say or do, France brushed his hair back over his head with the hand not holding her ribbon and turned away from the almost, but not quite white capped ocean.

He froze when he saw her standing there, silent as the air around them, hands covering her mouth. She saw his eyes flit behind her to the only exit – which she was currently blocking. She slowly removed her hands from her closed lips and let them drop to her sides.

France's appearance looked no better than when she had last laid eyes on him, six days ago. The bags under his eyes looked less prominent, (had he been sleeping a lot?) but his face still bore that strained, gaunt look.

Seychelles swallowed and blinked.

"I'm so sorry, France." Her words came out in a strangled whisper.

France simply stared. And stared. So she filled the silence, words pouring out of her mouth like her waterfall in the jungle, but much less peacefully.

"I, I just… I don't want to seem like I'm making up excuses, France, but – I know there isn't really an excuse for what I did, but I, I felt lost. Um…Unsure. And you were finally here and - do you know how much I thought about you over the past ten years? Worrying over your condition in the war and why it was taking so long for you to come back. And then when you did…I was…blinded by all the happiness rushing into me – ha ha – I don't know how happiness could blind me, but there you go. And I thought: now that you were here… I would be your primary focus."

Still France didn't speak.

Seychelles took a desperate step forwards, a tiny, yet unfaltering step and France seemed to shudder slightly.

"I missed you so much…but…Canada probably misses you and the colony on _Ile de France – _they probably miss you, too. And… I didn't know what to think or say or do because all I saw was you and I really wanted _me_ to be all that _you_ saw, but it's not like that. And I'm so, so sorry France for not understanding that. Oh, and England can drown in his 'horrid attempts at cooking' for all I care."

She ended her sentence with the words France had used to describe England's cooking habits a long time ago. She stared into his eyes, imploring him to see that she really was telling the truth. She took another step forward and was devastated when France took a step back in turn.

She wasn't crying. She was beyond that now.

"Please, France. I realize now that even if you can't be here all the time, I still need you from time to time. Even if I'm really dumb and don't seem like I show it. I just…I dunno… We have to treasure out time together…" She shuffled her feet again, but stopped immediately – because that was childish.

"Hmm…" It was the first noise she had heard from France in a long time and her heart yearned for more, for a comforting word or sentence instead of just a sound.

For the second time, she spied her ribbon dangling from his hand and improvised – desperate to glean any sort of reaction from him.

"Can… can I at least have my ribbon back?" She nodded at the strip of bright red.

His eyes took an agonizingly long time to slide away from her face and onto his right hand. It was as if he had just noticed that he was, in fact, holding her ribbon. The one he had given her so long ago.

"Ah. Of course."

He held out his hand and Seychelles wasted no time in grabbing it tightly and drawing herself closer to him. Not touching him; she was at least two steps away from him, but now he didn't have a choice but to respond to her.

She pressed her lips together and kept her hand on his wrist, touching both his skin and her red ribbon.

"France? Please forgive me?"

He let out a long sigh and put a hand over his face before letting it slide off and come to a rest on her hipbone. He took a step closer.

"_Ma chéri…_ What am I going to do with you?"

"I don't…know? Ha ha…" His close proximity was making her dizzy again, but there was nothing she wanted more than his forgiveness, so she resisted the urge to step back.

"France?" She searched his eyes and was met with that same mask-like quality. What was he really thinking?

No sooner had the word left her mouth and France had covered it with his own.

Her eyes widened and she swore her heart stopped as his warm lips covered hers. …This was a kiss. Did it being on her mouth mean something different? After a couple of seconds, Seychelles closed her eyes and (what was she supposed to do?) pressed forward just as France leaned back, breaking the completely new, strange, different, contact.

Her mind remained slightly fuzzy. What…just happened?

"Uh… does that mean I'm…forgiven?" Oh wow, way to sound sure of herself there.

France's hand lifted up off of her hip, quickly, as if he couldn't really believe what he had just done. He studied her face, frowning slightly… Puzzled.

"Ah~ But, of course – Séchelles." An invisible switch flicked and his mask changed from thoughtful to flirtatious, more like the France she had grown up to know.

She smiled and licked her lips, tasting what little trace France had left upon them. She laughed lightly and stepped into his arms – always open, always inviting, no matter what the situation. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? But when his arms wrapped around her in turn, she really forgot to care and just let herself meld into his body, cutting the last strands of guilt clinging to her consciousness. She really was sorry and she could tell France realized it. If that kiss meant anything, of course.

She lifted her head slightly and breathed into his ear. "Thank you, France. I really am sorry."

She pressed her face to his neck and sighed. After a while he responded. "I know Séchelles… I am too."

And the breeze carried their words away into the setting sun.

_AN - Hurr... I like Chapter ten. :P Reviews are laaave. Thanks again to the few who did. But that was, like, 3 chapters ago. XD Thanks for the favs, as well!_

**_Translations - Salut, je suis le commander pour cette expédition, Corneille Morphey et tu serais…Séchelles, non?_**  
_ Hello, I'm the captain for this expedition, Corneille Morphey et you would be Seychelles, no?_

**_ Vous avez raison. Je m'appelle Seychelles. Um…Pourquoi êtes-vous ici?_**  
_ You're right. My name is Seychelles. Um... why are you here?_

_**Footnotes - **You guys remember how China had to teach Japan how to write? Well. Seychelles doesn't know how to write either. _  
_ Corneille Morphey was the commander of two ships sent to claim this chain of islands after the Austrian Succession and just before the Seven Years War in North America. Pretty convenient for me. :P This was in 1754. He named the largest island Séchelles after the financial minister for the French Kind at the time._  
_ Okay - so this is France. He probably has multiple relationships going on with a bunch of people at once all over the place over many years. He also wouldn't care that this is a young woman/girl - in fact, he probably relishes the fact that she can so easily be taken advantage of. This is my opinion on the relationships of France, sorry if it bugs you. :) I made it progress over 10 chapters, so... woot? :D_

_That's it, I think. I hope you're enjoying this fic, guys - let me know what you think, okay? I'll see you next time! _


	11. Treasure Your Time

They stayed like that for a long while, neither daring to move lest the other take it the wrong way. But the sun eventually slid behind the horizon and off to warm a new day on the other side of the world, slowly siphoning the heat away from the chain of islands. Seychelles shivered slightly, despite the warmth of France's arms and regretfully stepped back so as to return to her cave and sleep.

"Do you have to return to the ships tonight," Seychelles asked and the red ribbon slipped out of France's hand and into hers. She tied it around her hair as France answered; finally getting those bothersome locks out of her face.

"Oh hon hon hon hon." France laughed his customary laugh, albeit quietly and Seychelles couldn't decide if she was relieved or annoyed.

"I wish I didn't, but…I may have been a little bit of a nuisance to my shipmates. I should really go and, ah…apologize."

Seychelles knew by 'apologize,' France meant 'make up an excuse.' She tried not to scold him.

"Right," she huffed. "That's understandable, I guess." She jerked her head lightly in the direction of the cave exit. "Shall we go?" France nodded and proceeded to follow her out of the cave.

They walked in a slightly uncomfortable silence until they reached the main exit and hit the dense trees, still illuminated - somewhat - by what little light remained from the receding sunset. Then Seychelles spoke. "How long are you going to be staying this time, France?" She chose not to look back, focusing instead on her foot work through the jungle.

"I believe we're staying for another week. My people are re-focusing their attempts of colonization here, while I work with you…" Seychelles thought he was about to say something else, with the way he inhaled, but no more words came forth.

Interesting. She had never heard France address the sailors as 'his people' before. And colonization? Would _she_ have her own people someday? The thought sent a thrill down her spine and she grinned to herself, face shadowed so France couldn't see.

They reached the clearing, the point at which they would need to branch off in different directions. Seychelles turned around to meet France's eyes. "You'll come find me tomorrow morning, right? I have a lot of questions to ask you."

France groaned (how dare he?) and managed to produce a bemused smile. "Yes, yes, I'll find you. And I…look forward to answering your questions." He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and gave Seychelles a dainty salute, turning to go back to the beach.

She grinned and watched him go. "You're sure you can find you way back in the dark?"

Her answer was a resounding crash and the bushes in front of her shook violently. Then France's head poked around a tree and he winked at her while pulling a twig out of his messed-up hair. "That was just a…bat. Don't worry about me, Seychelles. For _I _am the one and only France. The darkness doesn't hinder me!"

And with that he stalked back off into the jungle, back to a probably worried Captain Morphey and the rest of his crew. She was sure he'd come back in one piece tomorrow. He _was _the one and only France, after all.

She touched her lips briefly with two fingers and wondered why life was so complicated.

I I I

Seychelles woke early the next morning and shot out of her cave like a cannonball on France's ship. Apparently they moved so fast that they broke stuff.

She certainly broke the helpless vegetation by trampling it as she ran towards the beach. She bounded effortlessly over random rocks and dodged around leaning leaves before skidding to a halt at the tree line, just in time to see France aligning his hat and making his way up the beach. She waved at him - the epitome of enthusiasm - and he raised his hand in a return gesture.

She was about to run out and hug him, but stopped – did last night change anything? Could she still hug him? Uh… As she was mulling this predicament over, France appeared and it didn't really matter because she didn't really _need _to hug him, it was just kinda nice…once in a while, that is. So she just grinned and rocked back and forth on her heels, hands clasped in front of her, waiting for him to say something.

He eyed her with an amused look on his face and crossed his arms over his chest.

"All of my men are on the ships right now – maintenance and all that. So we can go somewhere more open, if you would like." His smile changed to include a slightly wicked effect. He was probably just happy that he didn't have to do any work. Seychelles considered voicing this thought, but thought better of it. France would certainly be much too lazy to care. So she just rolled her eyes and started off into the trees. After a couple of seconds, she could hear France's refined and confident footsteps behind her.

They walked in silence for a few minutes until Seychelles broke through a wall of vines and into the Clearing-Where-Everything-Relevant-Seemed-to-Happen. She turned to France, smiled and found a nice patch of soft moss, promptly sitting on it. France eyed the patch wearily and poked it with his toe. When he was satisfied that it wasn't wet, or crawling, or clinging, or wasn't whatever it was he was worrying over, he sat down opposite her and – proceeded to pull a full-fledged picnic out of his bag. Typical.

"So…you said you had questions?" France struggled to yank an entire loaf of bread out of the brown leather.

"Oh…um, yeah." Seychelles wished that he would stop tugging on the loaf. It was horribly distracting – if it was so hard to get out then how in the world had he managed to fit it in? Finally, with one solid jerk and a matching grunt, the bread came free and Seychelles could begin to collect her thoughts. There was one thing that she really wanted to know – or at least glean a little bit more information from.

She cleared her throat, hating her hesitance and spoke. "How did I get my name, France?"

France stopped his hand halfway to his open mouth; the (suddenly) cheese never reaching it and raised an eyebrow. The resulting expression was really quite stupid and Seychelles would have laughed if it were not for the fact that she was morbidly curious and just wanted France to get on with his answer.

He closed his mouth and placed the slice on the bag and stroked his chin thoughtfully, staring off to her left. Seychelles wondered if his stubble was scratchy.

"Yes…about that." He continued to look not at her, but at a point over her shoulder and she resisted the urge to turn around and check if there was something there. After a couple of seconds, he removed his hand from his chin and looked over, holding her gaze.

"Viscount Jean Moreau de Séchelles is my minister of finance. My people and I had decided to name this island after him. But _only this island_. And yet…you are saying that, without a doubt, Séchelles is your name as a future Nation?"

Seychelles answered without hesitation. "Oh – yes, I'm very sure. But… but what about Mahé?" France blinked. "Séchelles is its new name, _ma chéri_."

The young lady worried at her bottom lip, absorbing this new information. This was strange… "But I like Mahé! And 'Seychelles' isn't just one island – it's…it's me; it's all of me. I don't really know how to describe…" Seychelles cocked her head to the side and looked at France. "But _you _know what I mean."

France eyed her in return, his voice low. "But of course I do. Hmm… If you say that you are Séchelles then that's who you are. I'm sure the current situation will change."

He ripped off a chunk of bread and chewed noisily, eliciting a strangled grunt of disgust from Seychelles.

"Right…" She looked away, fiddling with the hem of her dress. Oh! Speaking of names…

A few minutes passed, France munching, birds squawking, leaves rustling and Seychelles pondering. "Uhm…" She hesitated again (stop that!) and looked up at France… who was looking at her instead of eating all the food in sight. Damn…now he expected her to say something.

She looked down and smoothed out the imaginary wrinkles in her blue dress.

"I…I talked to your captain yesterday." Seychelles didn't have to wait with apprehension seeing as France's immediate laughter saw fit to quell any anxious thoughts and convert them to confusion instead.

She sat patiently, as France extended a delicate finger, pointedly wiping a stray tear adhering to his long lashes, still chuckling. He smirked.

"Morphey, non?"

France's finger curled back to rest with the other and his hand fell casually to the side, fingers fiddling with the buckle on his dusty shoe. "Hmm… He's so lazy; I'm surprised he actually got up off of his ass for something that didn't directly concern him."

Seychelles scoffed and snatched a piece of bread from France's stash, nibbling it for something to do. "He did say he only wanted to speak to me because you weren't…well, working." She lowered her eyes, choosing not to tell France that whole 'treasuring their time' thing came from the captain.

The following silence was awkward. Seychelles remembered to break it.

"Anyways, my _point _is: he kept calling you something. A – a weird name. It sounds like 'France,' but it wasn't…er…isn't." She looked back up at him. "He kept calling you 'Francis.' What is that?"

France stared at her, his thumb and forefinger still infuriatingly busy playing with his shoe buckle. His expression was thoughtful and slightly aggravated. He sighed and closed his eyes for a couple of seconds before opening them again to look at her. After several repetitions of these facial expressions and slight exclamations Seychelles knew that he was preparing to explain something to her. She waited. And he obliged by answering.

"Normal humans can't know who we are. You, surely, can understand this." He paused while Seychelles nodded and continued. "Good. That being the case, we – the Nations – need normal, human names; so as to blend in." He paused again and Seychelles could've sworn he posed for her. _"Mine _is Francis Bonnefoy."

Oh. Well that made perfect sense. Which was strange seeing as the sense came from the mouth of France. Or Francis.

"Then what do I call you," Seychelles asked.

"Whatever your heart desires," France purred in return.

"Tch. Well, what about _my _human name? I'm going to be a colony soon, so I'm going to need a different name, too!" The young lady clasped her hands together, her eyes wide and hopeful – the French bread long forgotten beside her.

She suddenly noticed just how long France had been staring at her and she immediately tried to make her expression less 'cute.' He regarded her with narrowed eyes (stop scrutinizing!) and seemed to come to a decision.

"I can't deny that you'll become a colony. We're getting closer every day to claiming you."

Seychelles flinched. Claiming her? She wasn't an object! France didn't seem to notice and continued on. "So I guess it wouldn't hurt for you to choose a name." Seychelles jumped. She got to choose? In disbelief, she voiced her opinion. "I get to choose?"

France smiled. "Of course, _ma chèri_. I can't do everything for you." Seychelles laughed. Finally – some freedom! "I wouldn't want you to." Now it was France's turn to flinch and Seychelles to not notice.

Seychelles' grin dissolved as quickly as it had blossomed and she hung her head. "But I don't know any names."

If France had seemed glum, he certainly didn't look it now. His grin was wide and full of amusement. "Well – like I said – I'm not deciding this one. It's up to you,_ ma chèri_."

"Stop calling me that."

_Thousands of miles away – on the continent of North America – two men sat at a mahogany table. Its surface was like their expressions: pristine, protected and shined to perfection. The older of the two men took a delicate sip of tea and eyed the other eyeing his cup._

"_I do hope you will drink that tea before it gets cold, my lad."_

_The boy contemplated pushing the tea far, far away. He took a sip and met his caretaker's gaze. _

"_Stop calling me that."_

Back on Mahé, Seychelles was stumped. She really didn't have a clue what to do. She sighed rather loudly. She really needed to concentrate on things that sounded good because what else were names other than pretty, strange words? And she found that she couldn't really concentrate properly with France so near, although she couldn't think why, so maybe she should just move onto another subject, but what –

"Oh! France!" Her outburst must have surprised him because he jumped particularly high in the air and cursed particularly loudly and proceeded to glare at her.

"…_Oui?_"

"I want to learn how to write!"

France responded by groaning and dropping his head in his hands. "How does England manage it?" He muttered incessantly for a few seconds and then was interrupted by Seychelles. She had been waiting for a long time and she wanted to learn this important skill _now._

"France! I need to know! Do you have any idea how annoying it is not to be able to read the names on your ships, or, or those maps your crew have? Reading is essential and I really, really need you to teach me. Please!"

France sighed again, as if the entire world had just told him that it was his to bear. He appraised her, almost judging her to see if she had what it took. He then turned to his bag and proceeded to dig around, (what more could he possibly have in there?) eventually pulling free a strange long thing and paper from the recesses of whatever else lived in there.

She started forward curiously, but was stopped when France held up his hand_. "Attends, s'il vous-plait._ I hope you realize that we I only have six days left with you here and we have an entire alphabet to contend with. There's a lot of memorization involved."

Seychelles nodded enthusiastically. "I memorized the numbers and dates and days and years and lots of history –"

"_Oui, oui. Je sais. Bien travaille."_ France seemed tried for a proper explanation. He inhaled and Seychelles groaned mentally as she sensed another one of his rants coming. Soon enough –

"Language," he crooned, "especially the French language…is a beautiful thing. It must not be _just_ memorized, but learned, nurtured, practiced, loved, ah, again, we see how love ties into many, many things…" He swiveled his head to look at her, his eyes burning brightly. "Are you ready, Séchelles, to learn the power of the written word?"

The almost-colony in question tried very hard not to roll her eyes. "What must I do? Oh, and what's that pointy thing?"

France started and looked down at his lap before realizing that she was talking about the quill. "Ah, em, that, _ma chèri_ is a quill. It is used to write things on paper. In this case, letters of the alphabet."

"Oh, okay. …And what's an alphabet?"

France's eyes dulled significantly. This was going to be a long week.

I I I

"_Ah, Eh, Ii, Oh, Ue…" _Seychelles listed off the five vowels and wrote them down shakily on the paper.

France smiled wanly. "_Bien travaille, Séchelles. _Only twenty one more to go."

I I I

As it turned out, Seychelles didn't accomplish as much as she would have liked in their intense six day learning period. Well, as intense as France was willing to make it. She had learned and memorized the entire French alphabet. But that was about it. She had never tried to spell anything – there just hadn't been enough time. France was right, Seychelles admitted grudgingly. Learning a written language was hard – even if she _did_ speak it. The best she had ever accomplished was spelling France's real name as 'Frances,' which he quickly corrected to 'Francis.' When Seychelles finally convinced him to tell her why it was so incorrect, she vowed to use it to her advantage someday, smiling sweetly.

I I I

The day came, again, signaling France's departure from her humble abode. They walked slowly side-by-side towards the ships. Seychelles hummed a made-up tune and France stayed silent. They reached the tree line. France stopped suddenly and put a hand on her shoulder to halt her steps. She smiled at him, questioning this. He spoke fluidly.

"_Ma Séchelles… _I want to give you a little something as a reward for your loyalty, you diligence and your hard work over the past years. It is hard sometimes, I know and I admire your ability to live so successfully." He halted and cleared his throat. "Ah, I know you like music – your singing is lovely – so I would like you to have this. It's a recorder. You blow into the mouthpiece and cover the holes with your fingers. I have a sheet here that outlines the basic notes."

He handed her the instrument – slender and made of beautifully stained wood – along with detailed diagrams of the fingering to make different notes. She looked on the back of the page (it was quite large) and saw the notes of '_Frère Jacques'_ written out on the back in France's handwriting – slender and curving and important looking.

She looked up, tears of happiness glazing over her eyes. She made a noise somewhere between a choke and a laugh and threw herself at France, forgetting about strange feelings, or kisses, or complications and simply hugging him for all that she was worth.

"_Merci beaucoup, merci, merci, merci…"_

France laughed into her brown hair and nodded, wrapping his arms around her slender body. He kissed the top of her head and Seychelles muffled a giggle.

"Something to remind you of me while I'm gone, non?"

The playfulness inside her deflated suddenly at these words. How long was he to be gone this time? What with the war, or wars, or the treaties to end wars, or the declaration of war… Just how long would she be without him this time?

_Make sure you two treasure the time you have together…_

Seychelles remembered this and tightened her hold on France, her one lifeline to everything else. The first tear squeezed itself down from within her eyelid and slid slowly down her cheek. A whistle sounded in the near distance.

"France… Thank you for everything. The recorder, the lessons, the answers… Hopefully I'll have a name chosen _when _you come back." Seychelles made sure to put stress on the 'when' because you never knew. "A-and…all the best with Canada."

He 'hmmm'd' in response and she couldn't tell if he was happy or saddened by her wishes. He dipped his head to kiss her on the temple and stepped away from her grasp, one hand trailing down her cheek, wiping away the tear before it came to rest by his side.

"_Bonne chance, Séchelles et du rien."_ He smiled and placed a hand over his heart. "I will think of you always." And with that, he turned to walk down the beach towards his ships and his Canada.

Seychelles watched him go, her expression hardened by constant repetition of this exact scenario. But she couldn't help but think that this particular moment was…different somehow. As if each moment could alter a lifetime. She watched him climb the ropes to the main ship and saluted to him even though she knew he couldn't see it. She then turned away and studied _Frère Jacques_ and the notes that made it exist. Oh… Just like the alphabet.

F, G, A, F… F, G, A, F… A, B, C… A, B, C

I I I

France stayed standing at the stern of the ship long after Mahé had disappeared beyond the horizon. Something nudged at the edges of his brain…something he had been trying to recall without success since he had left. Had he forgotten something? Yes…but what…?

"Ah. Dammit. I forgot to teach her about the accents."

_AN - Oh my gosh, I am SO sorry about the wait. Why does school/life have to take up so much time...? Anyway, here's a longer-ish chapter. I hope you guys enjoyed, and thank you for the support! Keep it up and so shall I! :P 3_

**Footnotes:**

_Oh hon hon hon, colonization! Not quite yet, but soon - very soon. ;)_

_Okay, about the name. The French had already been planning to claim this chain of islands as a colony. They just hadn't gotten around to it yet. They had already named the large Island Mahé, but hadn't properly discovered the rest of the islands. So they chose to change the name in the hopes that that would be it's name as a country. I thought it was appropriate, though, for Seychelles to recognize her name as it was. It would just be a little bit...confusing for France. I hope I made that clear enough in the chapter. :)_

_Also, not sure if I've explained this, but France (and his crew) will continue to say Séchelles, while the country herself knows herself as 'Seychelles.' That's her actual name, Anglicized, so I thought it was fitting for her to call herself thus. Hope that's okay with you guys. _

_I had to write the little UK + US blurb, I just felt the need. :P_

_In case anyone doesn't know, 'Frances' is the feminine spelling and 'Francis' is the masculine spelling of the name._

_France is heading to Canada to fight the Seven Years War, which we will get into at a later date. And accents in the French language are preeeetty important. Good job, Bonnefoy, good job._

**Translations:**

_Attends, s'il vous-plait = wait please_

_Je sais. Bien travaille = I know. Good work._

_Bonne chance, Séchelles et du rien = Good luck, Seychelles and you're welcome._

_Due to the ominous looming of exams, there may be a long wait for the next chapter as well... But summer is fast approaching and that means writing time! Thank you all for sticking with me! It means a lot!_


	12. Identity: Overtaken

Oblivious to this essentially life-changing mistake, Seychelles tore her gaze away from the ship shrinking into the distance and made her way slowly back to her cave, already wondering what adventures would be experienced the next time France showed up. She eventually decided that the next time he was here she would impress him with all of her new-found musical and lingual talents.

She grinned and laid the recorder and its instructions carefully down onto a lip inside her cave, covering it with dried foliage, so that it would neither dry nor moisten too much. She then exited the cave and ran down to the beach once more, deciding to make headway on her spelling.

She crouched down on the wet sand near the beach, not wanting to spend time looking for a stick to make the outlines. Those clouds on the horizon looked heavy with rain. She glanced up once more in the direction of France's ship, hoping the weather wouldn't hinder him.

She shook her head and looked back down to the innocent patch of sand in front of her. Mocking her. Stupid sand.

Hmm.

Seychelles… Now how would one spell that? Well. _Clearly_ the first letter was 's.' That was a start. Um. Right.

She scribbled a hasty and messy looking 's' on the sand at her feet.

"Say… Sehh… Seh." Eh sounded like ay, didn't it?

So Seychelles wrote an 'e.'

This went on for a far longer time than the young woman would have liked. Why did languages have to be so hard? She sat back and looked at the final product of her name staring back at her.

Sesel.

"I am Sesel." She thought for a minute; added two letters to the end. "And my people will be the Seselwa. Like the Québécois that France keeps talking about in Canada."

And then the skies opened and the rain poured down, relentlessly drenching the sand around her and obliterating her hard work. No matter. She had all the time in the world to try again. And so she would.

But for now, Seychelles just sat. Letting the monsoon drown her hair, her clothes and – as much as she didn't want to admit it – her spirit. How she wished she were not alone.

I I I

Over time, Seychelles was able to spell many more words, the majority of which from memories of past experiences on her island. Lesyel and bezwen and larmoni and lanmour and presye and touzour and leternite and… papa.

She refused to relate these words to France…even though…no. They were just words.

I I I

Two years passed and Seychelles, having learned Frère Jacques off by heart, still practiced it every day, as well as some other tunes she had made up in her head. It was now scratched and scraped, having rested on bare rock for many a night and constantly played day after unchanging day.

Unchanging, that is, until she rounded the corner to see an ornate French vessel sitting just off-shore which was apparently captained once again by Monsieur Morphey. With the entirety of the sailors standing on the beach listening to him speak.

Oh.

Seychelles immediately removed the recorder from her lips lest she make it squeak and ducked back behind the cliff face, straining to hear the captain speak. Who was actually alarmingly close by. But where was…?

But the next words spoken by Captain Morphey's thick French succeeded in removing every thought from within her head.

"By the name of King Louis XV and the French East India Trading Company, I hereby name this chain of islands: Séchelles, official colony of _La République Française. _May it flourish under our rule and never fall prey to those awful British."

The convoy was silent for a minute and, all at once, they started babbling on about duties, colonies, and errands needing to be run. But Seychelles had long since ceased to listen, having slid down the rock face and onto the soft, sand; her legs couldn't find the strength to support her anymore.

She–

(Where was - ?)

She was finally a–

(Where…?)

Seychelles stared off into the distance, out towards the open ocean – the waves never changing, or were they always changing? But she shook her head, willing herself back to reality, back to here and now. A colony! If there wasn't an entire fleet of French officers and if her legs had actually been strong enough to hold her, the young lady would have danced for joy. After all these years, she was finally a colony – finally France's!

But speaking of…France...

The joy she had been experiencing seconds ago took wing and flew away quite rapidly. If France was here, he would have found her – sought her out a long time ago. He would have been with her, to stay with her through such a momentous occasion. But…he wasn't, plain and simple.

Seychelles crossed her arms over her chest, hugging her shoulders and refusing to accept the truth. But…

_I might not be around when you think you need me…_

Seychelles gasped at the recollection of these words, spoken just before their big fight, two years or so ago. Every time she had needed him, he had been there for her – a mentor, a caretaker, a friend, a figure she could relate to. But this moment – when the official beginning of her history with France came to be…said Nation wasn't there.

"H-he's not here…?" Seychelles' breath hitched, but she didn't cry.

_Why?_

_(I need you.)_

I I I

Years passed. And they had never passed so slowly.

Despite her so recently updated status as a French colony, nothing seemed to happen. It was like everyone who had ever meant anything to her (basically France himself; who was she kidding) had up and left, ditching her for more important matters. For over these years, (after the fifteenth she had decided to stop counting), she would see ships, French ships, passing her islands. Passing them and doing nothing. It was like their focus was set solely on the other young colonies like Ile de France and any others that existed on this wide, empty, lonely ocean.

There was that word again: lonely. The feeling hadn't struck her this hard since that time when she first discovered it as a small child. It wasn't like she had never been through this solitude before, but seeing all those goddamned ships pass her by without a fleeting thought kinda stung a little.

But, hey! She was officially a colony now, and that said something. A colony without people or growth… Oh well. She was almost beyond caring now.

Every once and a while she would think about France and how he was faring through that war of his. How he was faring with Canada.

Seychelles sighed, circling the beach for lack of anything better to do. She was too big to sit comfortably on her Thinking Rock anymore. Which was sad. France's absence was sad. Everything seemed to be outgrowing her which was sad too.

This was not how she pictured being a colony would turn out.

She kicked at a rock on the beach and missed. She carried on.

I I I

They came during the middle of a blazing hot day, several ships flying French flags. Seychelles stood warily behind the tree line, studying them. Oh, great; she was turning into France.

Several men made their way quickly and efficiently from the ships to the shore, after they had successfully secured their vessels. Seychelles knew at once from their demeanor that these French men meant business. Which was strange, considering how lazy all French sailors had been in her experience. But they looked like they knew their orders and knew exactly what had to be done and how fast to do it.

This intensity, as opposed to their usual drunken celebration could only mean one thing – bad news to the east.

Seychelles shook her head and retreated quickly back into the trees, so that the men could do their work.

Their work, as it turned out, terrified her.

They began by clear-cutting several of her _palmiers_ (my special trees!) with sharp, evil looking weapons, throwing the wood onto large piles, which were eventually hauled back to the ship, included several whole, uprooted ferns and wild species of plants.

The clear-cut sections were very precise, Seychelles noted with mounting uncertainty from behind her hiding places. They began to dig holes in her land, undisturbed for, well, ever, and put little bits of things into the holes, filled them back up with dirt, and sprinkled some water on them, fresh, not salty.

"_Okay, les gars, _back to Monsieur Poivre. I know he's an ass and making us do all this work, but just be thankful you're not all killing yourselves in the war overseas. Let's go and get this over and done with."

The worker's words were met with a chorus of '_oui ouis_' and French profanities before they all packed-up their things and trudged off, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.

Seychelles stood, rooted to the spot, the one phrase coming back to her in waves: 'be thankful you're not all killing yourselves in that war.'

'All killing yourselves…'

France was in that war, she was sure of it.

And that left her with one burning, horrible question she had never thought to ask before because it had never really had anything to do with her.

Could Nations die?

But no, she thought, beginning to pace frantically back and forth, they couldn't, because that's what France had said that one time, right? That Nations lived on even when their countries only became memories, right? Yeah.

But what if they were shot? Or, or, terribly wounded in battle?

What if France was –

No. She couldn't think like that. Not when she had no clue how long France would be gone. She had stressed the 'when' in the 'when you come back,' hadn't she? So France had to come back. He would be fine. He had existed for hundreds and hundreds of years, anyways.

Okay. She was worrying about nothing then.

But an unknown feeling of dread still lingered in her mind, refusing to be shaken off.

_Please come back._

I I I

The ships stayed for months, some coming and going, but always leaving at least two to supervise the island. Some of the bastards even took her giant tortoises from their home on the island, intending on doing who knew what with them. The workers relaxed once the primary work was finished, and eventually returned to their stereotypically 'oh hon hon hon' French-y selves, drinking excessively and listening to their ship-mates' stories about their long distance girlfriends.

As much as Seychelles appreciated the switch back to familiarity, it made her heart hurt (oh come on, you haven't seen France for years, lighten up) to be reminded so often of the blond- headed buffoon who had made his way so easily into her life.

There was no use pouting about it she supposed. Not that she was pouting, or anything.

Over time, she noticed that what she had first thought of as just destruction turned out to be life as well. Small, unfamiliar plants were growing out of the little holes the French sailors had made, and they were growing bigger every day. Every month or so, Monsieur Poivre, the leader of this entire expedition along with Monsieur Dufresne, would harvest these plants, cutting them down to little bits of green only to have them grow large again and repeat the process.

Where were they taking them? Ile de France, maybe?

It was all rather bizarre, Seychelles thought huffily. What irritated her even more was how elusive she needed to be now that there were several loud and obnoxious French people swarming her island…

And she had been so used to solitude.

She looked down on the hustle and bustle from a cliff off of the beach and realized that this was the start. The beginning of the end of the life she had known.

She should have been happy. This was all she had ever wanted – to be recognized and appreciated.

Instead she put her head in her hands and silently wept for the first time in decades.

_AN - I'VE DONE IT. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA TWO YEARS AND YOU HAVE A NEW CHAPTER!_

_I am so sorry. For those of you who still care, you're the best. 3 I WILL finish this fic if it's the last thing I do. Can you notice the place where my writing style has changed in two years? ;)_

Translations: 'Okay, les gars' =** okay guys**

Historical references:

_Seychelles was officially claimed in the name of King Louis XV on November 1, 1756. The important bits in the Seven Years War in Canada occurred between 1756-1759, so France was obviously fighting England at that time and couldn't be there for Seychelles. Tears._

_Not much happened for years after colonization, because the French East India Trading Company went to shit and couldn't afford voyages - oops. But, the guy in charge of Mauritius/Ile de France came to Seychelles to introduce foreign plants/food to the island, while taking stuff from Seychelles and bringing it back with him. There was also this French guy named Nicolas Dufresne who came and stole some tortoises in 1768 cause he's cool like that._

_What else...? The official language in Seychelles is French Creole, which is basically based off of phonetic French. Ie - l'harmonie became larmonie, and Seychelles became Sesel, just because the language was based solely off of the sounds, not the words. I incorporated Seychelles not knowing the written language into her basically inventing the Creole - haha! _

_For now, that's about it! Let's breathe some life back into this story! :D :D :D_


	13. Contact

About one year later, Monsieur Poivre suddenly turned up again, after a longer than usual absence. Having seen the ship coming into the bay from her usual strategic cliff side view, Seychelles quickly scouted out the best place to hide, right by the beach so that she could eavesdrop and remain unseen at the same time.

Crouched behind a large rock, she soon discovered that Monsieur Poivre had returned because of poor growing conditions on Ile de France, and had come to see how well the crops were faring on Mahé. And indeed they were flourishing.

(Haha, my island's better than the other guy's!)

During the past year, the Frenchmen had begrudgingly extended the 'gardens' she had heard them calling the dirt rectangles to make room for the quickly growing plants and vegetables. Monsieur Poivre seemed ecstatic at this news and started going on and on about the potential for growth in the archipelago and how strategic its position was considering all of the travelling around the West Indies, according to Rochon and Grenier, and how they would now need to make time for building –

Seychelles' jaw dropped. Building what exactly? Like, building an actual settlement? With, with people and everything?

With her ears ringing uncomfortably, she slowly and silently slunk away to her cliff to think about the enormity of this development.

I I I

_Nous l'avons! Nous l'avons!_

The response to the piece of paper flapping around rather harshly in the hand of the newest flamboyant French captain was composed of a raucous cheer by the rest of his crew. Finally, almost twenty years after the first official colonization attempt, the government had granted them a royal warrant to start Séchelles' first settlement.

Seychelles shook her head in utter disbelief as she watched from a distance. No sooner had she just begun to accept the changes to her island, not to mention her entire life, then another change would take its place, bigger and scarier than the one previous. Now she was to have a settlement?! Full of the buildings France had told her about, full of her own people?

She clenched her fists as she remembered that dream she had so long ago – the only dream that she had ever remembered, full of foreign objects and bustling civilization. Were the images in her dream finally coming true? Would she be subject to the drastic changes of an actual population of living, breathing people?

Well, of course she would! She was their Nation-to-be, for goodness sake! She would have to be there for them…just like France had been there for her. Had the roles, then, changed? Was _she _to be the mentor now? Was she even ready to be a mentor to these people?

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and shut the babbling French voices out of her mind. She pictured France. Pictured his longer blond hair, stubbled chin, and his playful eyes. She heard his, dare she even give him the satisfaction, charming voice, kindly and not so kindly telling her what to do, teaching her, supporting her…arguing with her. She thought of the last time they had seen each other and how different it had felt when he walked away that time, leaving nothing but the recorder in her hands and the lingering trace of his gentle fingertips on her cheek.

_I suppose…I do care for him. Very much. More than I thought possible._

Despite his eccentricities, he had taught her language, kindness, and what it meant to be a Nation.

But it was she who taught herself resilience and perseverance. And this was her responsibility now.

She steeled herself and opened her eyes, the real world flooding back to her.

Several months later, the settlement of St. Anne was born.

I I I

_Merde. _

So the settlement wasn't even on her own goddamned island.

When Seychelles had first discovered this, she had beaten the ground in frustration, doing everything she could to hold back her cries of utter disbelief that the first settlement she could ever hope to see wouldn't even be on Mahé. And it wasn't like she could just hop on a French rowboat and have a jolly good time with the rowers on the way to St. Anne – she still had to lie low! It just wasn't fair!

After almost tearing her hair out, and having to re-fix her (tattered?) ribbons several times, she finally calmed down enough to realize that there would still be many Frenchmen staying on Mahé, considering this was the biggest island with the most supplies. She would most certainly be able to eavesdrop on the sailors when they made their reports to their captains, or even when they just talked amongst themselves.

She sighed dramatically, quickly stopping herself when it reminded her too much of France.

_I guess this'll just have to do._

From what she managed to pick up over the next several months, at first, St. Anne prospered. A total of twenty-eight people inhabited the settlement, living comfortably with the abundance of healthy vegetables and other sources of food around the island, and Seychelles vowed that when she was able to move islands without arousing suspicion, she would do whatever she could to help it stay that way.

She spent the days imagining herself flitting around about the petit little buildings, secretly helping out wherever she could: she would have fixed damaged property; would have made sure the gardens were properly watered, and, of course, would have eavesdropped on various conversations. As much as she wanted to know what was happening on St. Anne, she never wanted to miss out on an opportunity to listen in on the current situation with France itself.

And what she heard wasn't good.

Apparently France had indeed lost Canada to the British after years and years of fighting. The British had taken several French colonies along the Caribbean (where was that?!), and much of Europe was devastated by all of the fighting that had occurred there. France's power in India (where was _that?!_) had disappeared as a result and it was becoming more and more costly to send ships out to the islands on the Indian Ocean.

Seychelles' concern for the well-being of France at this point was growing greater and greater with each piece of information learned. What if he was unable to obtain passage to her islands? What if the imbalance in his country and those surrounding it started another war? Would she see him again within the next ten years? Twenty? Fifty? It was almost too terrible to think about.

And what was worse, after only a year, the prosperity of St. Anne had dwindled, its inhabitants having no choice but to return to Mahé due to 'lack of funding,' according to their leader, Monsieur Barré. The future of her colony seemed to contain nothing but spice gardens, as far as she could tell, as Monsieur Poivre diligently watched over his nutmeg.

Seychelles could no nothing but watch the French colonists struggle in vain to make a decent colony out of her tiny little chain of islands, and in turn, watch it all go astray. She might not have been fighting a war for land and territory, but she and these few brave Frenchmen were fighting their own war of sheer, desperate, almost impossible survival…

…Which, after another ten years, was made even more impossible due to the sudden presence of British ships.

I I I

Seychelles watched her colonists intently from high up in her usual spot, fingers gripping the side of the cliff face intently. She silently cheered them on as they finally (finally!) sprung into action after years of doing nothing (was France lying about all of his stories about the strength and versatility of his people?) seemingly spurred on by the sudden appearance of the enemy's ships.

Success started with the establishment of a Royal Settlement on Mahé itself, led by Jean-Baptiste Philogene de Malavois, meant for military planning and populating the settlement to give it more of an official sense.

The young Nation's eyes widened in happiness at the sight of actual babies emerging from newly built hospitals and homes. Did she look like that once? Come to think of it, how did she even come to exist? She didn't have parents…

She flipped a ribboned section of hair over her shoulder and remembered that particular question for France the next time he came to visit. Taking his sweet time about it, geeze.

Sighing again, half in contentedness and half in despair, she let her mind stray once more to what France might be up to. There were British ships lurking around, for goodness sake, shouldn't the loud-mouthed flirt be here to stop them?

But she couldn't allow herself to think of him as her hero anymore…

She frowned. She was starting to feel like she was getting too caught up in her own matters. As if she was drifting further and further away from the man who had change her life so much for the better.

But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, right? Right?

_I still need you._

I I I

So, apparently she had her own Constitution now, considering the colonists seemed to suddenly hate their own monarch. Huh. This meant that the colonists had spontaneously cut off any rule whatsoever from her/their neighbour, Mauritius, which was practically screamed independence, something Seychelles was all for, but also deemed slavery acceptable, which Seychelles didn't care for as much.

Geeze. Seychelles grimaced at the recent events that had just occurred, the eavesdropped conversations accompanied by the usual French profanity. If her colonists were making their own constitution all the way out in the middle of the ocean, she could only imagine what was going on in the actual country.

_La Révolution Française…_

It sounded both terrible and beautiful, but which was it? Terrible or beautiful? Seychelles had no way of knowing. Also, she mused, if the French citizens were in an uproar about their own country, was France himself safe? Was this really his battle to fight?

Whatever was going on, she hoped no part of it would come to her. She wanted nothing to do with the tragedies of war.

I I I

After a while, she began to notice a change for the better within her small, but thankfully prospering colony. And that change began with Jean-Baptiste Queau de Quincy, the only truly decent Frenchman Seychelles had really ever seen. She was starting to grow more and more suspicious of the validity of France's heroic stories…

However, when Quincy took command, he managed to increase the amount of French ships that would stop by to resupply, as well as organize the colony with a great degree of efficiency. Seychelles liked him. She liked him so much, that she decided to take an unbelievably great risk for him. She was tired of sitting around on her cliffs days after day, doing nothing but watching, waiting. So, she made a plan. She would make contact with the Commander.

She studied Quincy for weeks, noting his movements and how important his work was. She would sneak into his cabin to try to read his letters and to see with whom he communicated. It was because of this that she accidentally learned the phonetics of the French language: how the 'hs' were silent, and how they used little ticks to separate 'le' and 'la' from words with vowels.

She wanted to laugh at herself; she had been doing it so wrong! Sesel wasn't how her name was spelled at all! That France had forgotten to teach her so many important things!

Those weeks, she absorbed more information that she had in decades. She tried her hardest to learn how to read and to write, practicing daily. Her recorder lay abandoned on its rocky shelf. She learned, succinctly, what had happened during the Seven Years War within Europe, North America, and South America, and of the French Revolution happening currently. She found maps, archives, scrolls, letters, everything! She discovered locations like America, England, Austria, and most importantly France. She then, after quite a while, managed to find herself.

She had never really understood just how secluded she was.

Shaking off the feeling, she decided she had learned enough. From what she had learned, she knew Quincy was a powerful figure. But was he important enough to know about France? For better or for worse, she was certainly about to find out.

She took a small piece of scrap paper, dipped one of Quincy's expensive looking quills into its inkwell, and wrote:

_Savez-vous Francis, La République Française? _

She made sure the paper sat right in the middle of the desk, as plain to see as possible, set the quill down, and slipped out into the bright sunlight to wait for his response.

The next day, there was an answer, written on the same piece of paper, in the same position as she had left it. She wrote a final response, trying desperately to keep her hand steady.

_Savez-vous Francis, La République Française?_

_Je lui sais. Qui es-tu?_

_Je m'appelle Séchelles. Rencontrez-moi par le grand jardin à 0900 heures demain._

She nodded to herself, satisfied. Now, it was just a matter of waiting. Waiting for contact with her first human being in over forty years.

_AN - two in one day? Waaaaaat. Thanks for the quick support, guys. :) Just a heads up, this chapter and the next will be very historical. France and England don't show up for a while and I need time to write about how Seychelles actually grows as a country, and as a character. I know some people like the history, and some people like characters, so bear with me._

Translantions: Nous l'avons = **we have it!**

Merde = **shit **

Savez-vous Francis, La République Française? = **Do you know Francis, the French Republic? **

Je lui sais. Qui es-tu? = **I know him. Who are you?**

Je m'appelle Séchelles. Rencontrez-moi par le grand jardin à 0900 heures demain = **my name is Seychelles. Meet me by the big garden at 9:00 am tomorrow.**

Sorry the translations are so awkwardly spaced... Haha!

Historical notes : _As I said before, a lot of the actual chapters will be historical, so I'll keep these short. Pierre Poivre was a Horticulturalist who planted foreign species on different islands. He did this on both Mauritius (Ile de France) and Seychelles; Seychelles fared better, so they planted more stuff there. I.e - cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, etc. _

_Rochon and Grenier were two French navigators who realized how much easier it would be to re-supply at Seychelles when travelling from India to Africa. They told lots of people, therefore, Seychelles became more well-known among French ships._

_On August 12, 1770, Brayer de Barré brought 28 people (Indian, Black, and White) to settle on an island off the coast of Mahé, called St. Anne. He stayed in Mauritius to get funding for the settlement. At first, errything was good, but funding didn't come, and erryone was forced to go to Mahé/back where they came from._

_In 1771 and 1772 and probably longer, people planted spices. Whee!_

_The chapter describes (very vaguely) what happened with wars n' stuff. I refuse to describe the French Revolution, because that would take forever. Shit goes down, big time. But I guess I can say: because the French people wanted to separate themselves from the monarchy, the peeps on Mahé took the war as an excuse to make their own rules/constitution. _

_Pirates-ish (kinda like French Privateers) were using Seychelles as an advantage to sneak their stuff around, which caused the British ships to show up. _

_There were two Jean-Baptistes: _ _Philogene de Malavois, who assumed command of the Mahé settlement, who didn't really do much except protect tortoises, and Queau de Quincy, who took command in 1794. Big jump in time, sorry. Not much happened other than building and settling. But this guy was good. We'll find out more about him later/this chapter and the next will describ him pretty well. ;) _

_Lotsa history! We're officially in 1794, right in the middle of the French Revolution, but that doesn't concern us. Stick with me, guys, and thanks so much! _


	14. Arthur

Quincy made his appearance at nine o' clock on the dot.

One look and Seychelles knew that this was a man of strategy and intelligence. His garb consisted of a simple, buttoned, navy blue overcoat, quite dissimilar from the flashy blue outerwear the rest of the Frenchmen, France included, seemed to adore, and a plain white scarf tucked into its front. His pants were plain beige, tucked into what used to be white socks; they had been clearly dirtied from Mahé's humid environment. The common bright red, not to mention distracting sash was gone, but the black, buckled shoes remained. His face was ruggedly handsome, however, it was lined with years of what Seychelles could only assume was the stress of holding his world together.

The Commander studied her, as well, and she would not have been able to guess what he thought of her, if her life depended on it, so controlled were his facial features.

He then looked into her eyes and said calmly, _"Enchanté."_

"_Enchanté,"_ she repeated, surprised at the steadiness of her voice. She needed to show this Quincy that she was able to think for herself.

"So," he said quietly, "you are this." He spread his arms to indicate their surroundings.

"Yes, I am. But I want to become a part of that." Seychelles gestured behind him, regarding the settlement that lived in the distance.

He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "And how do you propose I introduce you to my rabid Frenchmen?"

She rolled her eyes and took a step towards him. "Obviously I can't see or be seen by any of your men, Quincy. But I've been watching those British ships circling my colony these past couple of weeks, and if they decide to come ashore, especially if Britain himself is with them, negotiations would a hell of a lot easier with me around."

She took a breath, surprising even herself at the sense she was making.

Quincy's eyes narrowed when she specified the colony as hers, and closed entirely at the mention of Britain. Every French guy she had met hated England! Albeit, she had only ever met three French people… But still – it was kind of ridiculous.

The Commander opened his eyes and nodded, coming to some sort of decision.

"You're a very wise lady, _ma chère._ It seems that bumbling idiot, Francis, has apparently managed to teach you something. Come. You will stay with me."

Seychelles exhaled at the sound of that familiar pet name, reined in her emotions, and nodded in turn. She followed him back to the beach; each said not a word to the other. After checking that the coast was clear, he opened the door for her and walked in after.

_At least he has some sense of French chivalry…_

He closed the door and turned to her, hands folded behind his back.

"May I call you Séchelles?"

She nodded and he continued.

"I have instructed my men to always knock upon entering my cabin, in hopes that one day you would try to contact me. Since this is now the case, refrain from speaking too loudly, and when you hear a knock, you will immediately go to your new hiding place, understood?"

He pointed directly to a large wooden closet, filled with various coats, each long and easy to hide behind. She also noticed his calm, almost-but-not-quite cold tone of voice, devoid of manners, but also lacking hostility. She wasn't sure whether to be angry at him for being so uncaring, or to appreciate his ability to get things done.

He cleared his throat and continued.

"I will be honest with you: this colony has flourished because I am using it as a port for _corsairs, _or as you would most likely know it, the equivalent of British Privateers. It is not a nice, nor a strictly legal business, but a means to an end. The end is our prosperity. Your prosperity. I had hoped no one would notice, but the damn British have gotten so powerful, they have to ability to fish out the tiniest of dishonesties among the tiniest of islands to seek to take them from their rightful owners."

Seychelles took all of this in greedily, her appetite for knowledge insatiable.

"I doubt the ramifications will be serious; I see no reason why the British would even want to take these islands –"

There came a knock at the door.

The look of utter, comic surprise on the commander's face was so stereotypical of the Frenchmen she had observed in her years here, Seychelles almost burst out laughing. Instead, she slipped silently into the closet, burying herself amidst the heavy coats and waited for what was to come.

The door opened and a red-sashed officer saluted and walked in.

_"Commandant, les cons britanniques sont ici! Un homme avec les sourcils immenses veut parler avec toi."_

Quincy swore and asked the officer to escort the man to the cabin before closing the door and turning towards Seychelles.

"It's your lucky day, _ma chère_," his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You get to meet the Empire himself."

She exited the closet and shut its door, wide eyes looking to Quincy for some sort of support.

"I've heard such terrible stories, Monsieur. What's going to happen?"

He inhaled, pausing for an agonizing few seconds before replying, "I really don't know."

There came a single rap on the door.

"_Entrez_."

"Why the bloody French, Quincy, it's only you and –"

The door shut behind him, awkwardly filling the silence as he first laid his eyes on Seychelles.

He sighed and muttered, "French it is; bloody hell."

As he stepped over the threshold and made his way towards Seychelles, the first thing she noticed (other than his monstrous eyebrows) was the smirk that flashed across his face, so malicious and self-absorbed that she almost quaked in fear of it and its implications. And he didn't stop there. Much to her surprise and horror, and ignoring Quincy's protest, England stalked right up to her and grabbed her shoulder, turning her to face him directly and stared straight into her eyes, a mixture of pleasure, malevolence, and intrigue etched on his face.

"Stop it." She said this in English with as much contempt as she could muster, suddenly remembering France explaining this phrase to her when he was mocking England's accent years back.

"Arthur," Quincy stepped forward.

England squeezed her shoulder before letting go and taking a step back, folding his hands behind his back. She had to admit he looked very official in his dark green tailcoat, pale tan breeches, and knee-high, black leather boots. But those eyebrows…

He laughed a short, clipped 'hah' and spoke to her in French.

"Were you forced to learn those words in multiple languages because France wouldn't stop touching you?"

She blanched and tilted her head to the side.

"No, of course not!" Steeling herself, she added: "he was making fun of you, actually!"

"Tch," England scoffed. "Bloody frog. He will be soon enough, mark my words."

"Now," he said, finally turning towards Quincy, "you're lucky this little whelp of a Nation-to-be happened to show herself at the right time, _Commandant_. Mr. Newcome is going to be very surprised when I walk out of this door in the little time that I will. This business with the _corsairs_ is, of course, utter nonsense and must be dealt with immediately. You are to surrender to my fleet and to the Commodore. We do not want this unsightly spit of land; it holds no use for us anyways, but we cannot allow you to continue abusing these waterways. What say you to this?"

Quincy had listened with the utmost attention, Seychelles noticed. She had had trouble keeping up with what England had been saying, but the Commander seemed to have an answer waiting for the Empire.

"I shall surrender on the insurance of the safety of my honour and property." He pointedly placed a hand on Seychelles' shoulder, much more comforting than that of England's. "You shall, as you wish, survey the movements of any suspicious foreign ships, and we shall supply any coming vessels, should they be deemed clean by your officers, and remain neutral. It would be suicide to try anything stupid against the entirety of your fleet. That way no one gets hurt, you control the West Indie waterways, and our colony survives. What say you to _this?"_

The two men regarded each other, both having given very logical speeches.

"Hmph," England sighed and ran a hand through his hair, eyes cast downwards for a few seconds before giving Quincy and appraising look; nothing malicious remained in his gaze, but Seychelles did not fail to notice the complete and total sense of surety never left it.

"I sometimes forget you belong to that sorry excuse for a Nation, Quincy. You are actually able to speak without me wanting to punch you in the face. Thank you for the lovely chin wag."

He pivoted smoothly and walked towards the door. As his hand fell to rest upon the doorknob, he turned once more to face Seychelles.

"It was rather interesting meeting you today, Seychelles. Do give my regards to Francis if you ever see him again. Cheers."

And that was that. No sooner had the door snapped shut behind him, Seychelles had sank to her knees, the accusations against France, the memories concerning him, and the sheer coldness with which England spoke was almost too much to bear.

Quincy immediately helped her up and into a chair across from the closet. He patted her shoulder and made his way over to his desk, grabbing a fresh piece of paper and immediately began to scribble away with his quill.

"…France was right." She muttered to herself, not particularly loudly. "He _is _cruel."

"When you are faced with the concept of such power, one must become cruel in order to keep it after obtaining it. He used to have a good side to him, if you can believe it. That was before America rebelled against him. I believe he lost all sense of kindness when he could not keep the one thing he truly wanted."

Quincy's response shocked Seychelles, as it reminded her once more of that dream she had (why always this dream?) when England and who she could only assume to be America were drinking tea together. They had seemed to be tense, as if one wrong move could upset a balance that had lasted for years. Was that what had happened? Did this rebellion against England doom any sense of affection left within him?

She sighed and shook her head, still reeling from all of the events that had happened today. And it was only noon.

"I don't suppose you've ever experienced the comfort of a house before, have you?"

Quincy had put the quill down and was looking over at her, a kind expression adorning his face, for which she was grateful.

She shook her head.

"You may stay with me if you wish," Quincy continued. "I have a spare room, and, as much as I'm sure you're used to spending the nights outside, the comfort of a bed after a long day's work is sometimes the best thing one can hope for. And…"

He paused, eyes flicking to the maps and scrolls organized so thoroughly above his desk.

"I can tell you like to learn. There is no way that France would have been able to teach you as much as I've seen you put forward in just the last few hours. I can teach you…whatever you'd like. English will certainly come in handy; there's no doubt that you will need to speak it in the future. That is, of course, if you want to learn. I realize we've only just met."

Seychelles smiled and picked up hair chair, placing it next to the desk and sitting once more. She banished all thoughts of France (where are you?) and England (I hate him) and smiled at the Commander.

"Where do we begin?"

I I I

Years passed. Quincy remained, the colony prospered, and the British ships continued to hover. Seychelles herself had flourished under the mentorship of the Commander; she had successfully learned proper French, spoken and written, and in turn, was able to help Quincy figure out the eccentricities of the French Creole the African slaves were using amongst themselves. She was even well on her way to learning English, practicing every day. It was monstrously difficult, but she had been at it for seven years.

After a while, she even remembered to pull out that old recorder France had given her. It was hardly even playable anymore; the wood had undergone severe wear and tear, and all she was able to do was have Quincy repair the smaller cracks. Maybe one day France would make her a new one…

In a way, however, she was very happy she had Quincy as a teacher. There was no confusing hugs or kisses or flirtatious ventures, and she found she could truly be herself around the man; to simply learn all there was to learn from him. At first she felt guilty, as if she was betraying France in some way. Yet, over time, she quelled those feelings. She hadn't seen France in fifty years…and her colony was growing fast. Of course she would have to find alternate means of contact. It was fine, really.

However, fifty years, she was beginning to realize, was a long time. What would she even say to France if he suddenly appeared one day out of the blue?

She shook her head, and bent once more over her English exercises. It was just one of those things that shouldn't be over-thought. She'd get there when she'd get there.

**_BOOM! _**

Seychelles shrieked as an explosion ripped through what must have been some palm trees about twenty feet to the right of the cabin. She dropped to her knees and, perhaps a little unwisely, crawled out the door to see what in the world was happening. Could that explosion have come from a cannon ball? Those things France had told her about so long ago?

She moved swiftly down the beach from cabin to cabin; no one noticed her due to the commotion. As she peeked around the corner of the cabin closest to the beach, another **_BOOM_**blasted through her eardrums. She forced herself to watch as one ship (_HMS Sybil_, she read), flying British colours, circled another ship with French colours. The most recent cannon fire had successfully blown a massive hole into the side of the ship, just to the left of its name, _Chiffonne, _too high to cause it to sink, but deep enough to cause some serious damage to the inside.

Seychelles could hear the screaming.

Suddenly, another ship appeared, also flying French colours. She could see Quincy, brave Quincy at the helm, shouting orders to the rest of his crew.

_But,_ Seychelles thought, _Quincy said that our ships weren't equipped for battle – that they were more for carrying bulk items from one island to the next. How is he going to stop this?_

From what she could see, Quincy did not intend on fighting the _HMS Sybil_. Instead, he waited until the Captain had taken the _Chiffonne_, before steering his ship right alongside the British warship, anchoring it, and swinging across from deck to deck on a rope attached to the spars, landing squarely on his feet and brushing himself off, all the blink of an eye. Seychelles' admiration for the Frenchman grew.

He met with the British Captain and both men disappeared below deck to negotiate. Seychelles noted the dingy, unkempt appearance of the taken French ship, and how empty it seemed. Where was the crew? The passengers?

She grimaced as she unstuck her fingers from where they had been clinging to the harsh, wooden edge of the cabin. Splinters caked her palms and her hands shook; she gave a soft cry of despair. Her ears rung from the blasts, her mind reeled from the battle that just took place offshore, and her hands stung.

She made her way back to Quincy's cabin; whatever happened was in his power now. There was nothing really that she could do.

So, she sat on her bed and cleaned her hands, picking out each splinter one by one until she heard Quincy walk back in through the door, cursing lightly. Seychelles jumped up and went to meet him, taking his coat and hanging it up for him as he collapsed in a chair and poured himself a cup of water.

"What happened, Jean?"

Quincy, frazzled, brushed a hand through his hair, took a sip of water, and looked up at Seychelles before responding.

"Well, eh, somehow the _Chiffonne _managed almost to get passed the British blockade, but of course, did not go unnoticed. She was carrying French prisoners, exiled by Napoleon due to _La Révolution Française."_

He sighed and shook his head.

"Therefore, Seychelles, you must be very careful around these new citizens. I will not deny that we need a growth in population for this colony to continue to prosper, but prisoners, no matter their heritage, know no boundaries. Just watch that you don't cause any trouble with the likes of them, _d'accord_?"

She nodded, waiting for more details.

"That being said, the British captain, Mr. Adam, is a bit of a dolt. Not only did he let me off for interfering with their fight, but I managed to convince him to let all vessels that leave from Seychelles fly a capitulation flag, so that they can get past the British blockade unharmed, and we can properly supply this island with the resources we need on Mauritius."

Seychelles grinned, amazed.

"Wow, Jean, you really managed to do all that? That's amazing! I know how much we rely on Mauritius, so this safe passage trick is gonna be awesome! I'm really glad you're the Commander of this colony – I dunno what we'd do without you."

Quincy smiled bemusedly at her praise and shook his head slightly.

"I do what I can for the good of the colony, _ma chère_. And for you as well."

The young woman smiled and stood, brushing the last lingering wooden splinters off of her hands.

"I just don't think I've ever really properly thanked you, Jean. So…thank you."

She smiled, walked over to where Quincy sat and kissed him on the cheek. She laughed at the bamboozled expression on his face, and turned to exit the cabin, feeling like some fresh air. She smiled once more at the delayed 'you're welcome!' that followed her out the door.

_AN - here's another!_

Translations: Enchanté = **it's nice to meet you.**

Les cons britanniques sont ici! Un homme avec les sourcils immenses veut parler avec toi =

**The British idiots are here! A man with giant eyebrows wants to talk with you.**

Entrez = ** enter** and d'accord = ** okay.**

Historical References: _Lawlz, Arthur turned up earlier than I thought he would. SO basically, Quincy is charging Corsairs (French Privateers) to resupply at Seychelles, which is how they're getting money. But the British found out and sought out Quincy to explain. Apparently, Quincy did a really good, quick job negotiating, so I figured Seychelles herself would work nicely there, as a reason for the job well done. _

_This is 1794, just after the American Revolution, so Britain's not so happy. _

_Seven years have passed, and we're now in 1801, near the end of the French Revolution. The Chiffonne matter happened just like it says in the chapter. The Chiffonne was taken on July 11, 1801 and once again, Quincy managed to be a negotiating bawse. Basically, capitulation means 'surrender.' So Quincy convinced the Brits to let them put surrender flags on their ships to Mauritius, so that the British wouldn't attack them for now reason. This made it a lot easier for the colony to get food and stuff. It was a good thing Quincy did. _

Hope you guys are liking it! Where's France, you may be wondering? He'll probably make an appearance very soon. ;)

Stick with me!


	15. Classy Exit

September rolled around and the days became hotter. Seychelles prided herself on thinking more and more in terms of months and days, as opposed to having no idea which year it even was. She had, with the help of Quincy, put together a rough idea of when France had paid her visits in terms of years. Much to her dismay, she realized that the last time France had shown up was in 1754, and it was now 1801.

How the years had flown by…

She was currently studying a map of the West Indies, sitting on her standard cliff, as opposed to Quincy's cabin. The view faced south, which was where he would be if he were to come to the island by ship. Which he would. Someday soon. She was trying to get more of a solid idea of the other French colonies in the Indian Ocean that relied on each other.

There were two major colonies directly south of her little chain of islands: Réunion and Mauritius. Now, these two separate colonies were located on islands that were basically right beside each other, so they got off easy when it came to trade and exchanging resources. Her islands were way up off the north-western coast of a huge African island, the Kingdom of Merina. She had no other support in means of close-by little islands, but her colony, as well as those of Réunion and Mauritius' relied heavily on each other to survive.

It was very satisfying to finally become more involved with the inner-workings of her tiny home.

She looked up to see the usual smatterings of British ships in the distance. They never really seemed to leave well enough alone. She understood there was a system involved here and that her colony did not suffer from their presence, but it was kind of unnerving to constantly see them lurking around off-shore.

But, wait. There was something different…

She folded up the map and delicately placed them in between two rocky outcroppings, so that they wouldn't blow away. From the same general area, she pulled out her beat up spyglass that France had given her almost a century ago. She crawled as close as she could to the edge of the cliff and elongated the glass, looking off into the distance.

There was another ship, smaller, less magnificent than those of the British. She edged closer still and saw that it was named _La Flêche. _It was French?

Speaking of French… She squinted, making out the French flag flying at the top of the main mast.

The stupid idiots! They weren't even flying the capitulation flag! The British ships would have no problem tearing them to pieces, and they'd have a reason to do so!

_Ah, c'est chiant! _

Seychelles bit her lip in frustration as the nearest British ship began to pull away from its companions and made its way closer and closer to the French ship. Much to her despair, she heard shouting from both ships, orders to bring out the cannons and to prepare to fire.

At least both ships were armed with a fair advantage, but did they not realize how close they were to a settlement full of people? How many lives they risked by shooting not only in the vicinity of a colony, but at themselves as well?

Goddamn French/British rivalry – always getting in the way of logical thinking.

The battle that ensued was very evenly matched, and Seychelles could feel the tip of the spyglass digging into the skin surrounding her right eye, she was son on edge.

The French Captain expertly maneuvered his ship, like he had been at it for years. The Brits just couldn't seem to get any direct hits. Thankfully the cannonballs that were fired ended up striking the cliffs and the jungle, far away from the small civilization. However, the French cannons were most certainly finding their mark. The British ship was sustaining heavy damage; Seychelles could see the men scrambling about trying to patch up anything they could.

The British ship started peeling away, as if it understood it had taken too much damage to continue. Seychelles noticed the small French figures congratulating their captain, patting him on the back and not paying attention…!

Seychelles gasped as she caught sight once more of the British ship; it had turned and was making its way back to _La Flêche, _preparing to hit it broadside.

"Look out!" Seychelles cast all wariness to the wind as she screamed in vain to the French vessel. At the same instant, the British fired the rest of their canons, utterly destroying the port side of the French vessel.

The Captain barked out a short response, and the surviving members of his crew, in unison, executed perfect dives into the turquoise bay, hardly making a splash. Then, to Seychelles amazement, instead of surrendering to the victorious British ship, the Captain expertly spun the helm, veering sharply to starboard, and tied the wheel so that it would not budge. He then drew his sword and cut through the ropes of three hanging lanterns; their contents smashed on-deck, smearing the wood with oil. Several small fires were still burning from the excessive cannon fire earlier, and once oil met flame, the ship was history.

Silhouetted against the flames and waiting for the last possible moment, the Captain grabbed a length of rope already tied to the spars and, on impact, swung from his ruined vessel onto the beach, landing on his two feet, and did not move until his fancy hat had landed securely back upon his head.

The cheers and applause of his crew echoed in his wake, and Seychelles had to admit that the French could make a very classy exit, especially under such pressure.

But that landing… That perfect landing, falling hat included, looked so familiar. Like she had seen it performed somewhere before, but who…?

She edged as close as she dared to the precipice and focused her spyglass on the man's face. It couldn't be, could it?

Her jaw dropped, and her heart leaped simultaneously when she finally realized who had captained the ship.

It was France.

I I I

Small branches whipped at her face as she rushed down the natural path leading down from the cliff, but she didn't care. It was lucky she didn't turn an ankle, or something similar, considering how little she watched where her feet were going.

_Fifty years! Fifty years and now he chooses to come back to me! What am I going to do? What am I going to say?_

She hurtled down the last leg of the trail and veered left towards the beach. She decided that she didn't care that she didn't know what she was going to say, because France was here (he was really here!) and that was all that mattered, maybe, maybe everything would just be alright when she saw him, because that was what was supposed to happen, wasn't it?

She made it to the tree line just in time to see France shaking hands with the British Captain he had just fought, accepting a clap on the back with a bemused, uncertain look upon his face. Quincy was there as well, standing just off to the side, shaking his head in apparent amusement. A quick discussion followed and the two men walked back to the settlement to return to Quincy's cabin, leaving France standing alone on the sand.

What was with these people hating each other so much one day and just letting them go the next? It was all so confusing. And why did he have to be right out in the opeeeeen? Seychelles whined to herself and fidgeted from foot to foot, resisting the urge to just run out there and greet him.

He had met Quincy, of course, but how many times? Would he return to the cabin first or find her? How was he faring with the loss of Canada? With the French Revolution? She watched him for a few minutes as he stood on the beach, staring out to sea, his coat draped attractively over his right shoulder, showing off his wiry build by trapping the tighter white shirt he wore underneath.

Wait…attractively? Since when had she noticed so clearly his figure? The way his shirt clung to his back and the way he stood, radiating confidence. When she was younger, all she saw was the silliness, the eccentricities, the stereotypical French qualities, but now… Now she saw a Nation, the Nation who had tried to be there for her as much as possible. And his performance aboard _La Flêche_ had really excited her in a way that she had never really experienced before.

Just _how_ much had changed in fifty years?

She squeaked in astonishment as she realized just how far away from the settlement they really were. The smoldering remains of France's ship lay not fifty feet to the left, and his position would go easily unnoticed, unless someone took the trouble to purposefully stare at him.

Which she was doing now.

_Merde._

Well. This was it then. The perfect opportunity. So why the hesitation?

Seychelles squeezed her eyes shut, exhaled quickly, and banished the thought from her mind. Slowly, she stepped away from the palm tree she was hiding behind, and made her way silently down the beach, towards her France, her friend, whom she had not seen in so long.

Her bare feet made no noise as she made her way closer towards the Nation, his back still turned. When she stood about three metres away, she called his name ever so softly, and stopped.

He stiffened, as if surprised that she was there, and slowly turned to face her.

They stood still for a few seconds, staring into each other's eyes. His were so blue…

"France?" She was whispering now.

At the sound of his name, France smiled. He removed his coat from his shoulder and dropped it to the ground, and straightened once more, not seeming to care about the sand. He stepped forward a few paces, closing the gap between them and reached out to touch her face, so similar to how he had left her the last time. His calloused fingertips brushed the hair out of her face and came to rest on her cheek, so soothing, so gentle.

She reached up to touch his hand, to confirm that France was really here, and that this was not just some beautiful dream that her mind had conjured up to satisfy her loneliness, but the real France, oh, France…

And with that, the tension broke and he laughed and pulled her into his arms, spinning her around and around, her blue dress swirling and twirling beneath her. And she laughed, in turn, burying her face into the crook of his neck; her arms held fast around his back, and she relished the feeling of being whole once more.

After an eternity, an hour, a lifetime, and a minute all at once, her feet touched solid ground once more and France realized he didn't have to bend over at all now to kiss her on the crown of her head.

"You've grown, _ma chèri."_

Seychelles beamed against France's shoulder, where she had decided to rest her head once more.

"And you, _mon chère_ have really learned how to impress me. I saw what you did on _La Flêche. _ I honestly didn't know you had it in you."

She leaned back and smiled coyly at the mischievous expression adorning France's still artistically stubbled face.

He responded by grabbing her wrist and twirling her on the spot, laughing at her surprised cry. He pulled her, off-balance, against him and placed his hand behind her back, lowering her body almost to the ground before pushing her up once more, finishing with a secondary twirl and pulling her close, excitingly close.

"There are many ways to impress a lady, oh hon hon hon. I'm glad I could be of some, ah, service to you there, _ma chèri_."

"Oh, ha, ha, France," she rebuked, just a little breathlessly, before stepping back a pace, still holding his hands within her own. She gazed once more into his eyes, noting the still present haggard, stressful look that had tugged at her heart the last time he had been here. They had argued about nothing that time… She vowed it would not happen this time. This time, she would do whatever she could to help him get through his suffering. Because friends supported each other.

"I…I've really missed you, ya know." She looked down, embarrassed and shuffled her feet. "You've, um, you've been gone a long time, France."

The sun had set a while previous and the stars had just started to appear in the sky. A warm breeze surrounded the pair, playfully tousling the Nations' hair and ruffling Seychelles dress.

She heard France sigh, long and resigned. He gently clasped her chin with one hand and raised her face so that he was looking once more into her eyes.

"_Séchelles_, I… I am so sorry."

Her eyes widened at this uncharacteristic apology. What…?

"I realize I have been gone far too long, especially considering I was the only one really there for you during your youth. And… I need you to understand, _ma chèri_, that I _know_ that you feel neglected. I _know _how hard it is to feel abandoned as a Nation, when the only real presence in your life had been that of another Nation. And for my prolonged absence, I am truly sorry. Howver…"

Here, he paused, as if struggling to continue. He dropped his hand from her chin.

Seychelles, in turn, reached for his face, hoping to convey a sense of understanding. He leaned into her touch and opened his mouth to continue, yet, she silenced him by placing a finger on his lips.

"France…I… I've grown a lot in the past fifty years, I really have. I've tried my best to learn what's been going on and what's currently going on. I, dammit, I… I know how hard you fought to keep Canada, and how awful the end result must still feel. I know how everything's upside down in your county these days; I actually wondered if maybe you weren't even safe there right now, what with the whole anti-monarchy thing going on.

"I may not understand how you're feeling right now, but I want you to know I take nothing personally. Yeah, it's sad that I haven't seen you in such a long time, but I know how much others need you as well. Those days of jealousy are behind me, okay? Now all I want is to see you happy. Is…that what you wanted to say?"

France visibly relaxed, the tension falling from his shoulders, and he laughed. One of the first genuine, non-on hon hon hon-y laughs she had heard from him in, well, ever now that she thought about it.

_Oui, Séchelles_, that's exactly what I was hoping I would be able to say. You've, hmm, seem to have stolen the words from my very heart of hearts."

She rolled her eyes and grinned, pulling him once more into a soft embrace.

"Still a hopeless romantic, I see."

He chuckled and returned the hug, only to pull away shortly after.

"I am the one and only France, after all."

His suggestive eyebrow waggle was interrupted by a long, loud yawn, which he (thankfully) remembered to direct away from Seychelles' face.

"Okay, you," she said quietly, picking up his dark blue jacket and taking his hand. "I'm sure you've had a hell of a long voyage, so you can stay in my room tonight. I'm sure Jean will understand."

France raised an eyebrow and followed her lead.

"You're on a first name basis with Quincy, I see. Exactly how long have you two been together?"

Seychelles frowned and chanced a glance at France, to her right, still holding her hand. He was looking at her intently and she _really_ hoped it wouldn't be him this time playing the jealous part.

"Well, I wouldn't call it together; he's just my teacher. But if you must know, I first made contact with him about seven years ago."

France cleared his throat and looked away before responding with a curt: "I see."

The Nation-to be furrowed her eyebrows and huffed in disbelief.

"I knew it: you're the one who's jealous now!"

France rolled his eyes but said nothing. He put a finger to his lips and gestured to their surroundings – they were now at the edge of the settlement and could not bring any attention to themselves.

By now it was quite late, and Seychelles could hear Quincy's snoring from his bedroom. There was neither sight nor sound of the British Captain who had accompanied him here earlier. Seychelles assumed he had gone back to his ship.

France raised his eyes, incredulous, and pointed at the cabin with his thumb.

"You even sleep in the same building as him?"

"In a spare room, but yes! What's so wrong with that, _Monsieur jaloux?_"

Seychelles now had to try very hard to keep her voice down, as France opened the door and gestured that she precede him through the entrance way. She returned his incredulousness.

"Where do you expect me to sleep – in bed with you?"

France scoffed, still holding the door open.

"Well, yes, that was the general idea."

"I don't see you for fifty years and you expect me to sleep with you?!"

France 'pfft'd' and tried unsuccessfully to lean charmingly against the door frame.

"_Ma chère_, if you insist…"

Seychelles threw up her hands in frustration, crossing her arms afterwards.

"This is no joking matter, France! I'm doing this for your own good. You'll, um, get more rest without someone else beside you to, uh, distract you. And to be completely honest I don't want to share a bed with you after fifty years – it's just too much, okay?"

Her speech ended in a shrill whisper, and she stared up at France, fiercely refusing (did she really not want this?) to give in to his proposition.

"…Fine."

"Fine."

And with that, the door closed, and she was left reeling once more.

_An - trolololo grown up Seychelles is grown up. She's able to bring out the darker side of France, methinks..._

Translations: C'est chiant = **this is bloody terrible! **Monsieur jaloux = ** Mr. Jealous**

****Historical references: _On September 15th, 1801, the battle for La Flêche was fought. There was a French ship that randomly picked a fight with and English ship, therefore, who better to Captain this vessel than our lovely Francis?! :P How it went down was basically how I described it in the chapter. And there were no consequences, apparently. Also, I thought it was funny that the British Captain congratulated his French counterpart. Sooo wrong, but historically documented..._

Not much happened history wise in this chapter - lotsa France-y/Seychelles goodness, if I do say so myself. Why do they always manage to screw everything up between them, geeze?

Stay tuned for more, and thank you so much for the support!Leave a review if you liked it! :)


	16. Identity: Tarnished

_* Heads up - this chapter is the first reason of several to come that this fic is rated T. Enojy! _

Seychelles stood in front of the cave, the one she had used as a makeshift bedroom for as long as she could remember. Only now was she realizing, after all this time, that she had finally outgrown it. She couldn't even stretch herself out completely, and she stared numbly at nothing in particular in response to this realization of, well, of growing up.

So, that night, she slept amongst the tortoises. 

The animals blinked at her curiously, their nightly business interrupted, as she tried to make herself comfortable in their dug-up, conveniently sleep-shaped nests. Used to her presence, however, the bale didn't even mind when she started talking to them, fueling the desperate urge to cast her feelings from the overwhelmed recesses of her mind, by any means possible.

"I honestly don't understand, guys," she whispered to the tortoises. "Do I truly want more from him that just friendship?" And…why am I so cared to find out?"

She frowned at the gravity of this question. She _was_ scared. But of what?

Suddenly, with a shiver, she was reminded of France's relationship with England, and how much they seemed to hate each other with a burning, fiery passion. This led her to think of his relationship with Canada, the exact opposite: loving, caring, and important enough to fight a war over. And speaking of wars, Seychelles' thought train continued its journey and lit upon the relationships these Nations had with each other: France and Prussia, France and Austria, France and America, and everything in between; they were always changing.

Her frown deepened. Despite how much she had grown in the past fifty years, only now was she beginning to realize just how young she actually was. All of these relationships France had had, all of these experiences, all of this change hugely outweighed anything and everything she had ever experienced in the entirety of her 'short' life. And this knowledge terrified her. It terrified her that she was just another piece, just another shiny gem that France, England, whoever saw as something fresh and pretty, something to take advantage of. Like she was an object that they took interest in for as long as she was new and exciting and not a moment longer.

Seychelles exhaled as this epiphany struck, the Giant Tortoises paying her no mind. This was why she so treasured France's friendship, but shied away when anything 'progressive' was implied. Which was inevitably going to be the case, considering it was _France_, for goodness sake.

France meant the world to her, he could teach the world to her, but he could also, if she were to attach herself utterly and completely to him, take her world from her, just like he probably had with countless Nations and colonies along the treacherous path of history.

And Seychelles knew she would be a part of all that one day – strategic relationships, marriages, affairs with personified countries – she knew it was inevitable. But not yet. She was not yet ready for her heart to break for another's benefit.

So, she decided, friendship it would be. For the next while at least. No use coming to any solid decisions after just storming away from the one that would ultimately solidify those decisions in the future.

There. She could sleep now. She would find France tomorrow and work on improving their friendship before deciding on anything else.

And, with that comforting thought in mind, she drifted off to sleep, surrounding by the munching of tortoise mouths and the swaying of her special palm fronds.

I I I

Seychelles woke to slender fingers winding through her hair. She smiled, despite the intimacy, and opened her eyes. She was met with France's eyes gazing down at her, stupidly, radiantly blue. His hand moved from her hair to her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze before withdrawing, coming to rest on his lap; he was sitting next to her, leaning against a rock.

_"Bonjour, mademoiselle_," he purred, charming as always.

'_Salut, France,"_ she murmured back to him, not quite sure where or how to continue and _what should she even say?!_

He 'heh'd,' smiling resignedly and looked away from her.

"I guess there's not much to do now that you've managed to learn so much on your own, _ma chérie…" _

Seychelles frowned at the melancholic tone of his voice, and it only deepened when she realized it was kind of…true. When they had spent time together previously, France had always been teaching her, guiding her, answering her questions. Now that they were together once more (as equals?), what was there now to do? What did Nations do to pass the time?

She was about to ask France this particular question, but stopped herself, realizing he would probably just answer it with something sexual and completely unnecessary.

Sensing her discomfort, France shifted and scratched the back of his head, the uncertain smile still lingering on his face.

"I am, ah, sorry for behaving so unattractively last night. I've…been through a lot recently."

Seychelles sighed at his last words. She thought for sure that he would have made a joke concerning how against his culture it was of him to be unattractive. She rubbed the tiredness from her eyes and looked over at France, saddened by the vagueness of his excuse.

She thought for a moment before rising to a kneeling position, her blue dress pooling overtop of her legs. She placed her hand delicately on France's cheek and kissed the other, feather-light, before moving forward and embracing him, placing her chin on his shoulder. He wasted no time in returning the embrace, leaning into her touch as if it was the first compassion he had been shown in years.

Considering his recent past, Seychelles thought glumly, it probably was.

"France…" She spoke lightly, not wanting to jar him from whatever happiness he was feeling. "I am unbelievably happy that you've come back to me, I really am. And I just… I want you to know that I'm your…friend, and if you ever want to talk about anything I'm here for you, okay? Just – just so you know. I don't want any hard feelings; I just want you to be happy."

She grimaced at this sappy choice of words, and struggled to end the speech on a strictly platonic note, just as she had decided last night.

"I'm here for you France… 'cause that's what friends are for."

She inwardly scolded herself at how 'not right' that sounded. Why couldn't she find the right words?

She heard France sigh, and to her dismay, couldn't tell if it was in appreciation or frustration.

_"Ah…oui. Oui, c'est vrai. Merci, Séchelles._"

She sighed herself at the sound of his halting, lack-luster response and briefly tightened her hold around France's broad shoulders, before letting go and looking into his eyes, smiling sadly.

_I'm sorry I can't (won't?) give you what you want._

She shook her head abruptly and stood up, catching France by surprise. She held out a hand to him and grinned, banishing all negative thoughts from her mind. He smiled quizzically and took her hand, standing and brushing the dirt off of his black pants (she couldn't help but notice his loose white shirt, tucked perfectly into those pants, showing off his sailor's build).

"Come on, France!" She laughed and swiveled around, hands behind her back. "If there's one thing I managed to teach myself by living on this island my whole life, it's how to have fun here!"

She kept smiling, a juvenile spark lighting her eyes once more, and France only just realized how much he had missed it.

After a slight pause, France (finally, finally!) grinned right back at her and began to follow her into the trees.

"_Bien sûr, ma chérie – tu as ma confiance._" 

I I I

After a while, Seychelles dared to hope, things were slowly returning to normal – to how they were before (France had left her alone for fifty years).

True to her word, she took France all around her tiny world, showing him what it meant to have fun in Seychelles. They did everything: hiked, cliff dove, swam with rainbow coloured fish, talked, and simply existed with one another. She even convinced France to accompany her and Quincy to one of the _Commandant's _ships so that she could learn even more, this time about ships, sea life, and what it meant to truly explore.

She smiled apologetically back at Quincy as France immediately whisked her away with a flourish and a soft, but firm hand on her back, explaining in rapid French the names of each part of the ship, from bow to stern, helm to spars to main-mast and everything else in between.

After a month, however (a whole month!), of France's achingly familiar company, Quincy gently reminded him of his duties to his own country, and how he was going to be needed there sooner rather than later in order to deal with the mess his people were currently stuck in.

He was to join Quincy and his crew on a routine trip to Mauritius, and would then continue on from there back to Europe, while Quincy returned to his duties on the island of Mahé. He would have only three more days here, while the necessary preparations were made, and then he would accompany them, because "you know as well as I do, France, that as hard as it is to leave something or someone you love for your responsibilities, there is now no choice in the matter, and this return trip is a finality you cannot escape."

France sighed and looked down at Quincy's hand as it squeezed his shoulder, before it returned to its owner's side.

_'Someone you love.' _Hmph. All the experience he had ever had with love (_oh, Mathieu…_) had ended horribly for both parties. Which was terribly depressing considering he was the embodiment of the country of love, goddammit. So, he adamantly refused to accept that Quincy had clearly made the assumption that he loved the little colony, because that was just not allowed to be true. He…just couldn't afford to fall in love again.

He had to admit, if only to himself, that Quincy was a fine Frenchman, quick on his feet and intelligent, and he was glad, albeit a bit jealous, that this man would be the one taking care of Séchelles.

And speaking of Séchelles…

His gaze wandered over to the cliff side, where she wandered occasionally to complete her 'homework' assignments France would give her, including English, French, and ship anatomy in each language…

He sighed longingly, like the hopeless romantic he was, and quickly tried to transition said sigh into an awkward throat clearing, as if to prove to himself and to Quincy that he wasn't undeniably in love with that wonderful girl with red ribbons in her hair, because he just couldn't be.

He tried to smile in response to Quincy's puzzled face, but it came out as more of a grimace. He sighed once more, this time resignedly before pulling a full bottle of red wine from within the mysterious and distinctly _French _depths of the one bag he had managed to save from the wreckage of _La Flêche. _

"Thank you for your help in arranging this voyage and your, ah, kind words, Monsieur Quincy. But I think I need a drink."

I I I

Seychelles smiled as she heard France make his way through the entrance that lead up to the sea-side cliff, the very same one on which they had…kissed for the first time. And hopefully the last, of course (of course?), Seychelles thought to herself, bemused.

She quickly composed herself, turning to face the on-coming Nation, and froze, smile slipping from her face as France stumbled through the entrance, cursing, an almost empty wine bottle clutched in his shaking hands. He reeked of alcohol.

"…France? Are you okay?"

He answered by downing the last of the wine and placed the bottle meticulously against a rock, as if unsure that he would have been able to do so without smashing it. He straightened with an 'oh hon hon hon hon' and made his way slowly over to where she sat, plopping himself down beside her and flashing a flirtatious, alcohol induced smile her way.

He looked out into the setting sun, due west, as if searching for something. Then, to Seychelles mild shock and horror, his smile disappeared and he started to cry. Not normal tears, that plead for comfort and reassurance, but overly depressed, floundering tears that just screamed 'I'm drunk and I have no idea what I might say.'

Seychelles sighed, and because it was France and because he was her stupid friend, she placed a hand over his and opened her mouth once more to ask him if he was okay and –

"_J'pense d'Mathieu."_

She froze, and it was with a herculean effort that she kept her hand where it was. He breathed out, shoulders shaking, and the immediate vicinity was filled with the smell of aged French wine.

Closing her eyes, she squeezed France's hand, wishing that she did not have to be included in this conversation, especially considering it was a drunken conversation complete with crying and longing for another person, and that person was not her –

Seychelles derailed her thoughts, forcing herself to be there for her friend. She had promised him, after all, that she would be there for him if he needed to talk.

"Why's it, _ma chérie,_ that ev'ryone I love's always taken from me?"

He trailed off in a dramatic whisper, his words slightly slurred, and groped beside him as if reaching for more wine. Finding none, he hiccupped and continued.

"'Course, tha' means you're prob'ly gonna be taken from me too."

He swayed and shook his fist at the ocean, and suddenly shouted, _"Va t'faire enculer, Angleterre! T'es un voleur, un con et, et j't'desteste! _

Seychelles recoiled at the sudden vulgarity and withdrew her hand from his, wishing she was somewhere else, far away from this poor, suffering, not to mention drunken man.

But wait… what he said… Considering he had definitely loved Canada, and England had taken him away, did that mean that he loved her too? Now? Had he moved on?

Before she could really think on this, France's shouting died down and he turned and threw himself around the Nation-to-be sitting beside him, as if looking for the closest means of comfort and consolation regarding Canada's absence that he could find. Seychelles wasn't too sure how she felt about this; the over-load on alcohol was certainly enough to set her mind on edge.

However, she sighed and rolled her eyes, putting her arms around France's back and trying her best to whisper soothing thoughts into his ears, really at a loss of what else to do.

After a while, the Nation's pathetic cries died down and his shoulders stopped their incessant shaking. After a while, the warmth of his embrace actually started feeling really nice. After a while, Seychelles almost forgot about the bottle (bottles?) of wine addling with his usually very coherent mind. After a while, France began to move his hands from her back to her sides, moving them up and down the curves of her body (since when did she have curves?) in a very suggestive manner.

"F-France?" Against her better judgment, she let him continue.

_"Oui,_ _dis mon nom,_ _ma chérie…" _

She blinked at the low, husky tone of his voice, and when his lips touched her neck, soft and sensual, things really started spiraling out of control. She closed her eyes as he kissed her, first on her neck, and then moving slowly, slowly across her collarbone, the tops of her shoulders, her cheeks, her nose, and her –

Oh.

And before she could even protest (did she want to protest?) his lips were on hers, no hesitation whatsoever, as he claimed her mouth with his own. He had turned to face her and his hands were still moving, touching, caressing her sides, her arms, her chest…

…Oh.

And before she even knew what she was doing, she was moving against him, catching his lips with her own, her inexperience working to her advantage as she simply pressed forward and joined this dance.

The initial adrenaline rush momentarily dulled all senses, and at first she forgot to realize the sour taste of alcohol as her tongue traced trails across his teeth, his lips. He purred against her as she placed one hand on his shoulder and the other on the side of his head, entwining her fingers through his soft, blonde hair. Her eyes were still closed.

Teasingly, he captured her lips with his and placed a hand on her chest, pushing her down to rest beneath him, almost falling over himself in the process. This jerky movement jarred Seychelles somewhat from her trance-like reverie, and she opened her eyes, the solid figure of France towering above her. The smell of alcohol once again washed over her, and for the first time since this all started, she couldn't decide if she wanted to push him off of her, or submit to his pleasant ministrations…

He bent down to kiss her once more, one hand in her hair and the other moving across her leg, her knee, the inside of her thigh, and then –

_Oh._

And something in her body jolted when he touched her there and her eyes flew open; she truly looked into France's gaze for the first time that night and was met with something horribly familiar – that gaze, that lecherous, lustful, almost inhuman gaze, that same look she had seen in her dream so long ago – and as much as she wanted (needed?) to explore this feeling that she had never felt before, she realized just how much France was not France, but just some drunken Nation who was still getting over his past lover, and Seychelles remembered that she was not ready for this, not really, not in this way – why, oh why did he wait until he couldn't see straight to do this to her, why –

_"Arrêtes-la, France,"_ she mumbled against his roving mouth, hating herself for sounding so breathless at the thought of just what those fingers could do. But this was not right; it was far from perfect, far from respectful…

But he wouldn't stop, didn't move, even after she pushed at his chest, and this was starting to frighten her. He moved his hips against her, and she involuntarily arched against him before coming to her senses, not wanting to be forced into this, and on top of a cliff, for goodness sake.

_"Arrêtes! S'il te plait, arrêtes!"_

France paused, confused, and Seychelles took advantage of this to push her way out from under him, dodging his clumsy hands as he tried to snatch her away again. To her dismay, he began to cry again, desperate, heartbroken tears.

"_Non, non, non, s'il t'plaît, Mathi- Séchelles, ne m'quitte pas, ne m'quitte pas."_

Seychelles stood up and backed way towards the entrance, tearing up herself now as he crawled towards her, shaking her head, wanting nothing more than to take his hand and kiss the heart break away from her Nation's face, but she had caught that slip, and knew that he was too dangerously on edge to be near right now. And he had tried to… Why had he tried to…?

No, it was too much – she had to get away.

One last look at his lust-glazed stare confirmed her previous thought, and with a small, whispered "_désolées,"_ She whipped around and ran from the cliff side, France's small, slurred "_s'il t'plaîts" _echoing in her ears.

She ran and ran, her tears flowing freely. She couldn't decide if she was running from her problem or escaping from something that could never be truly hers. And the indecision was killing her.

She eventually, after making sure to cover her tracks, took shelter under a rocky overhang, hiding herself from the rest of the island and the dangers that lingered there. Sniffing, she drew her knees up to her chest and tried desperately to quell the throbbing between her thighs.

She did not sleep that night.

I I I

Seychelles watched from the beach as France left with Quincy two days later. She had not spoken to him since that night. She watched as the men weighed anchor, and set sail. She watched as France turned, found her gaze, and tipped his hat to her.

Their shared gaze betrayed nothing but sadness.

She watched as her Nation sailed once more out of her life. Their eyes did not leave one another's until the ship disappeared around the island.

She had never felt so alone.

_AN - Phew! Did you know that the last scene was the original idea that stuck in my head two and a half years ago that started me writing this beast? And now I've finally written it! Fuck yeea! _

_So you are aware, this is Empire times, and Nations are not fluffy, happy, modern day Nations. They are ruthless and confused, and fright wars, and get things stolen from them a lot. So whatever romance that happens, is going to be a little dark, fortunately/unfortunately. So you know. Please review to tell me if you like it! _

__Translations : **Salut = **hello

**C'est vrai =** that's true

**Bien sur, tu as ma confiance = ** of course, I trust you.

**J'pense d'Mathieu = **I'm thinking of Matthew (the abundance of apostrophes is supposed to show mumbling because he's drunk - hope that's clear...)

**Va t'faire enculer, Angleterre! T'es un voleur, un con et, et j't'desteste = **Go fuck yourself, England! You are a thief and an idiot, and I hate you!

**Dis mon nom = **say my name

**Arretes-la =** stop it

**Ne me quitte pas = **don't leave me

_No historical notes for this one other than it is routine for ships to go back and forth from Seychelles to Mauritius for move supplies._

_Thanks for reading and again, please review! I need to know if I'm sucking or not. :P Thanks! _


	17. Identity: Rekindled

Nine years later, both Réunion and Mauritius surrendered to overpowering British forces.

Seychelles sighed in frustration upon hearing this news from Quincy. Of course, it was now only a matter of time before the British fleet would make its way north to deal with the pesky, pro-slaver colony that had lingered under French rule for decades.

With all likelihood, the Brits would arrive in a couple of months, and she and Quincy, newly named Justice of the Peace, would have to deal with whiney, prissy, snobby sailors that had only showed up in the first place because they wanted to steal even more land from France.

She ignored a twinge of pain in her heart and banished the related memory from her mind as quickly as a snuffed out candle. She and Quincy now had a political response and strategy to plan, after all.

She shook her head and grabbed a chair for herself and another for Quincy, placing them both at his desk, before sitting down and waiting for him to join her.

_Good Lord, I really hope they don't send England himself._

I I I

It was on an unseasonably cool day in April that the _Nisus _haughtily crawled her way towards the shores of Mahé, like a petulant child, unwilling to meet its occupants. She was flying British colours, of course, and Quincy and Seychelles stood on the beach, equally begrudged, and awaited whoever was to come.

It didn't take the Captain long to bark out a few orders to his men, having them prepare a longboat for himself and another gentleman; his back was turned towards her and Quincy, but Seychelles' heart dropped like a stone at the flash of bright yellow hair hidden behind that monstrous hat.

She waited for the inevitable. And the inevitable came.

Immediately, she switched her mind over to 'English-mode,' realizing belatedly that this would be her first real test concerning the foreign language. And, considering the importance of her audience, this was turning out to be a true test indeed.

The colony had grown large enough by now (it was verging on almost six thousand semi-permanent occupants!) for Quincy to allow Seychelles to roam on her own without hiding, so long as she did not make any permanent acquaintances; the people here, despite forming her colony, were not able to know who she was. This she understood.

And this was why she now stood on the beach in plain sight of anyone who dared watch the confrontation.

The boat drifted ever closer, the British captain at the oars and England (good God, it was England) sitting behind him, legs and arms crossed, an expression of utter indifference expressed by the contours on his face. Finally, the hull touched sand, and the Captain leapt out, dragging the rest onto the shore, so that the ocean could no longer claim it.

Besides England, who perfectly fit the part of one who belonged on a naval vessel, this middle-aged captain's appearance completely _boasted_ seamanship: his short, tousled black hair and sideburns spoke of the South African wind whipping through it, and Seychelles pictured him smiling grimly at the helm, or perhaps confidently standing on the bow of the _Nisus, _watching the sea swirl past_. _His naval wear complimented his hair perfectly, being of the same pitch black colour, embroidered at each hem with golden fabric; his brilliant white plants shone almost as brightly as his brass buttons gleamed, and it was obvious he shined his black buckled shoes as often as he could.

Seychelles tried not to stare to noticeably.

Once the oars were safely stowed and the British Nation had followed his Captain gracefully out of the boat, the two turned towards Seychelles and the Justice of Peace, their disregard clearly apparent.

The Captain, deigning not to introduce himself right away, took one look at Seychelles, and raised an eyebrow in disbelief. England stood at attention, hands behind his back, this time sporting a dazzling red, knee length coat over his white shirt and black pants, and opted to stare as well at Seychelles, smirking, as if waiting for her to mess up.

Seychelles, again, had to stop herself from starting, maneuvering her gaze away from his figure and choosing instead to glare right back at the (she could tell already) British snob of a captain.

"And what, pray tell, is this, this _girl,_ this measly little scrap of a thing doing standing beside our great and powerful Seychellois leader," the Captain asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Quincy opened his mouth to answer, but Seychelles beat him to it, stepping forward and answering for herself. She was tall for a girl her age (what a human expression), and she was pleased to find that the Captain only had about five centimeters on her in height, and was equally as delighted to find that she stood on eye-level with the British Empire. She spoke in lilting, lightly accented English.

"You, _sir_, happen to be conversing not only with my colony's very capable Justice of the Peace, but also directly with this colony's embodiment herself. I can assure you that I am very capable of listening to what you have to say here, and, perhaps later, acting upon it. Take into account that you have already referred to me in an unpleasant manner; for your sake, please do not do so again."

She stepped back and noted with satisfaction the sudden disappearance of England's sinister smile.

"…Yes, well… Shall we crack on then? Captain Philip Beaver; charmed," he drawled, taking Quincy's hand in a firm, quick handshake before continuing on. "And you both have the honour of addressing the National Representative of the British Empire, I do hope you realize."

Seychelles must have made a noise in the back of her throat as she tried to stifle a laugh at the official title these humans gave to Nations. Captain Beaver shot her of look of incredulity, and England's frown simply deepened.

She was beginning to really dislike how that frown never seemed to change. But Beaver was talking once more, and Seychelles turned her gaze from England to the Captain, bracing herself for the boring negotiations to come.

"If the slow, but steady growth of this colony is anything to go by, Quincy, it would be daft not to congratulate you on your intelligence, quick wit, and lack of similarity to the National Representative of France."

England's smirk returned full flare, and Seychelles shot him a disgusted look before turning back once more. Quincy blinked and looked surprised, although he showed no hesitation in his answer.

"We do what we must, and, hidden away in the middle of the ocean, Captain, you understand how easily we are able to carry on doing so; but you have my thanks. Therefore…?"

Beaver continued, miffed. "Therefore, I am willing to allow the, ah, particular terms of your special capitulation to stand; I have the necessary documents on my person, to be looked over…perhaps somewhere with a little more privacy, if you would."

Nodding, Quincy gestured for his bizarre little entourage to follow behind him, heading for his cabin. Seychelles reluctantly turned her back on England before pivoting and walking quickly to her friend's side, noting with interest how in her and Quincy's favour this conversation had begun.

They had little distance to walk, seeing as Quincy's cabin was right by the tree line. However, as they weaved between the first few wood and grass huts, they passed a procession of master and slaves, who were, judging from their farming tools, off to an agricultural field to reap what crop they could.

She heard both men scoff behind them as wasn't at all surprised when Beaver took his cue to quash any relief Seychelles might have been feeling.

"But, of course you do realize, that this abhorrent notion of slavery must go, Quincy. The whole business is frowned upon by the world now, and we will not stand for it here upon these islands, you understand."

They had reached the door of the cabin and Quincy waited until the three figures stepped over the entrance way before answering, closing the door behind him. The outside (comforting) noise of home was abruptly cut off.

"'_We_ shall not stand?' I'm sorry, Captain Beaver, but I'm afraid, considering you've so easily agreed to the continued capitulation, I don't really understand your wording."

As he spoke, he opened a cabinet drawer by his desk and pulled out an ornate bottle of _eaux-de-vie_ from its interior, as well as two crystal glasses. He expertly poured the alcohol as only a Frenchman could do and handed the glasses to his two guests.

"Oh come now, Quincy, do not ruin your reputation so - Philip is an important man: quite the conqueror; you do not want this particular Captain taking advantage of you."

Seychelles started as she turned towards England. These were the first words he had said during the entire conversation, introductions and all. She had almost (one could never really) managed to forget he was there. He leant casually against a wooden wall, holding his glass and taking in his surroundings, before his gaze came to rest on Quincy, after casually lingering upon Seychelles, like a lion contemplating whether to kill an animal out of hunger or boredom.

He downed his glass and she suppressed a shiver.

"This man has pried uncountable island colonies from the weak grasp of that bloody frog. I'm quite sure you have not forgotten, dear Quincy: Ceylon, Martinique, Réunion, Mauritius, of course…"

England ticked off these names on his slender fingers, voice dropping to almost a coo. His gaze flicked from Beaver to Quincy and back again, as if comparing the two men. Seychelles was really beginning to see the ruthlessness behind that gaze, how he sized up these men, as if they were nothing more than his puppets to control. She could see just how he would have gained so much power - so wise, cruel, and calculating.

"We have no intent on stopping at Mauritius. Your wits have simply saved us from having to come up with a system ourselves. How I do love a little luck now and again."

His quirked lip fell, making way for another of those frowns, those scowls that just seemed to scream: 'I'm better than you, and I won't let you forget it.' He pushed himself lazily off the wall, walking over to the nearest chair, twirling it around, sitting down like he owned the place, so that he straddled it with his legs, leaning over its back and gazing indifferently up at the rest of them.

"Seychelles has evaded capture for a remarkably long time, indeed. But this negligence on our part stops here. Yes, we will let your capitulation stand, yes, Quincy, you shall remain Justice of the Peace, and yes, you will continue to govern your colony via French traditions, as much as it pains me to say so."

Now, he sat up even straighter that he already was, something Seychelles had previously thought impossible, and stared directly at her.

"But this is now _my _colony to rule, and I will therefore see fit to rule it by _my _ judgment alone, and no other - do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Seychelles found herself nodding in agreement even before she had fully comprehended his meaning. The calm, calculating tone of his voice was almost hypnotizing, his British accent absolutely perfect; it was as if nothing else other than what it intended could possibly be true.

She stopped herself and blinked as England rose to help himself to another healthy (or not so healthy) portion of the French brandy, emptying it again with a single swallow. She grimaced and stepped forward, hoping to clarify the situation.

"And how, England, to you intend on doing so? Am I to expect your constant presence upon _my _ island from now on?"

Now it was England's turn to blink at her from across the room, and he smiled once more, suave and haughty.

"Why, yes, actually. I shall from now until I see fit be acting as a British Royal Marine, and my job will be to monitor the, ah, Seychelles situation. Slavery at the present is, of course, still legal by British law - do not forget that you are now under the general legalities of the British Empire - although I do very much doubt it shall be for much longer. Slave trading, however, is not, and believe you me, I will be doing everything in my power to assure the bloody business does not continue under my watch."

Seychelles shoulders sagged at the authority in this command, and she glanced helplessly at Quincy, who only shrugged in return, sending the message that there really wasn't anything that they could do, now that their closest allies had surrendered to the most powerful Empire in the current world.

England had not finished however, and she noticed with and odd mixture of amusement and horror the small, hardly noticeable pink tinge that had now adorned his cheeks, which could only have come from the two half-glasses of _eaux-de-vie _he had just ingested.

"Now, I do believe that it is high time I familiarized myself with the little colony before us, considering she won't be an utter bore to converse with this time. You have taught her well, Quincy, old boy. Don't forget to look over and sign those documents, eh, Philip? I shall return to the _Nisus_ presently, and I wish you all the luck in the world."

And before she could even protest, England had taken her arm in his. Ignoring Quincy's huff of disapproval and Beaver's sigh as he reached into his coat pocket for the documents, he led Seychelles to the door, opened it, and compelled her out onto the beach, closing it behind him with a smart snap.

"Well then." He exhaled and closed his eyes for a couple of seconds before opening them and smiling rather beguilingly at Seychelles before looking straight ahead. She tried to remove her arm from his, but his grip on it only tightened. "I must offer you a congratulatory word at the status of your colony, my dear. Growing, and growing rather quickly for such a solitary archipelago."

It took Seychelles' mind a few seconds to realize that she had just been referred to by her old nickname, only in a different language, however, she couldn't really dwell on the implications, as England continued to drone on. They walked slowly along the shoreline, and the waves lapped at the sand to their right.

"However, I must admit, it will give me great pleasure to lead you around on the very same leash France has so foolishly lost his grip on; maybe I shall even find you a dog collar to wear as I parade you around for the sodding cheese-eater to see exactly what it is he has lost."

The sudden switch from a compliment to such an insult was disturbing, and with this comparison, Seychelles finally did manage to wrench her arm out of England's solid grip, glaring at him as he had the audacity to laugh at her reaction.

"Oh, come now, my dear, you are naught but a _ colony_ and this small title boasts nothing but change and discomfort. Your entire existence belongs to those who have led you along the way - my sincerest condolences that you happened to fall under the care of France."

He stepped closer to Seychelles, too close, and placed a hand upon her upper arm, leaning in to whisper in her ear.

"But now it is my turn."

She exhaled at the proximity of this great and terrible Empire, taking perhaps a little too long to shrug off his hold and step back once again, her angry eyes blazing.

"All you want is control and obedience, England. I can assure you that you won't find very much of that here."

She added as an afterthought: "no wonder America fought so hard to get rid of you."

She flinched back as England tensed, livid, and raised a hand as if to strike her, before, with what seemed like a tremendous amount of will-power, lowering it back down to rest at his side, fist clenched, as was the other. She noticed with a certain sense of smug guilt that he was shaking; she had had no idea how greatly this statement would affect him.

"You will never," he said, voice dangerously low, "speak to me about America that way again. Know your place, _colony._"

And with that he straightened his collar and stalked off, managing a somewhat graceful pivot in the sand, and walked back the way they had come, presumably to re-connect with Quincy and Beaver. He had nowhere else to go, after all.

Seychelles was left standing, dumbfounded, as the revelation of discovering the weakness of the world's greatest Empire sank in.

I I I

To her initial dismay, Seychelles found herself spending quite a lot of time with her colony's new Royal Marine, or course, the great British Empire, Arthur Kirkland. Captain Beaver had not stayed for very long at all, seeing to his Nation's comfort before quick 'farewells' and 'be goods' and his return to the _Nisus. _

It was always England who came to seek her out, walking with her on the beach, or inviting her to watch him tidy up his new quarters, (a cabin that had just been recently abandoned by a family of slaves) and as much as she tried to hate him at first, she grudgingly began to realize how much she missed the company of other beings like her. Beings who had seen the ocean's waves come and go millions upon millions of times, who had fought for the impossibility of recognition, and who understood the burdens of not only themselves, but of their land, their territory, and their people.

She had not forgotten his reference to the dog collar, of course, nor his heated remarks on her status as a colony, but he had not mentioned anything of it since, and, well… she had to admit that she found a kind of wary solace in England's presence.

Seychelles also noticed how different he became when he was not surrounded by important figures, captains, or politicians. Or, for that matter, empty of several shots of liquor. His scowls receded to thoughtful frowns, as did the level of cruelty in his voice. He replaced the utmost precision with simply being correct, and complained rather comically when he did not get his way. Perhaps it was because he felt the need to influence his people into retaining the power they had brought upon themselves, as opposed to himself. Perhaps, when un-needed, he relaxed his Empirical attitude so that its weight would not drive him to insanity. Perhaps…well. Perhaps he was just not as bad as France had led her to believe.

The young colony smiled and shook her head as she sat on the beach by the sheer granitic cliff face, waiting for England to arrive, remembering their first conversation after the one in which they had fought.

After some slightly awkward small talk he had told her that he was to be acting under the name of Bartholomew Sullivan, Royal Marine to Seychelles from the British Empire, and Seychelles couldn't help but burst out laughing at the bizarre combination of first and last names he had given her. They had just fit so well with his obscenely obvious British demeanor, that she had just laughed and laughed, which only escalated at his indignant, overly British spluttering.

Needless to say, their rapport only improved from then on.

It was an odd rapport, to say the least, but England offered Seychelles a sort of challenge, always keeping her on her toes, and teaching her what it meant to have real responsibility. Not that France didn't have real responsibility, but it seemed like England really took his duties seriously. She had often wondered if she was opening herself up too quickly to the likes of such a ruthless Empire, but…

Her thoughts were cut off, suddenly, as England's sure-footed steps sounded on the firm sand, and she turned her head to see him walking towards her, panting and mopping at his face with handkerchief adorned with the Union Jack.

She stood and folded her arms, eyebrow raised as he shot her an indignant look and stuffed the handkerchief back into his shirt pocket.

"This is the third bloody day in a row that I have been positively _chasing_ dropped hints and clues around your entire island concerning the trading of slaves, and each _sodding_ time I find nothing, no evidence whatsoever to help prove that my tip-off was valid. Sooner or later, my dear, I am going to be forced to believe your citizens are nothing but liars and cheaters, the lot of them."

He sulked, as if he did not just insult her entire population, and she regarded him coolly, arms still crossed.

"Although I'm sure you have not fallen hard of hearing this past week, I will remind your once more that we do as we please, and have done so for the past fifty years. I doubt even the great British Empire could control each and every one of our traditions in a week."

England narrowed his eyes at her before smirking slightly and straightening his collar, his shirt sleeves, and the alignment of his cuff links in response.

"Indeed. Needless to say this whole ordeal is driving me mad; you understand."

He held out his arm for her to take and she did, falling into an easy rhythm beside him. She remembered with a pang how opposite her encounters were with France, all fun and games and entertainment. Time spent with England involved politics, enlightened discussion, and English practice - all very intelligent, of course.

She couldn't decide which she liked more.

This thought triggered more memories, memories of France's complaints and hateful remarks concerning this Nation. She was beginning to see that this was a symptom of jealousy, rather than actual truth. She understood how much it had to have hurt France to have his colonies taken from him, but knowing the immoralities of the activities she allowed on her own island to ensure its survival, she was beginning to understand the necessity of strength and what one was forced to do to obtain it.

She sighed and glanced at England from the corner of her eye, straight backed and proper. He picked up on this and raised his monstrous eyebrows.

"What is it, love?"

She bit her lip before answering, deciding to be blunt.

"Why do you even talk to me, England? Isn't your job more important that getting to know a simple little colony like myself?"

England sighed and closed his eyes for a second, opening them again and looking straight ahead.

"I'm honestlyy quite surprised France hasn't managed to scare you away from me after filling your head with his biased lies all these years. The only thing I have against the frog is his inability to see past the wine and cheese and focus on how important his responsibilities really are. I have nothing against the man himself."

Seychelles, hating herself, agreed with him, nodding her head slowly. Again, she counted herself lucky to have been coached by Quincy.

"All he seems to care about is romancing every Nation and colony he can get his dirty little hands on and influencing them to be like him."

Here he paused, eyes distant and full of memories.

"I…I must admit he does seem to create long-lasting relationships with those he claims, while however hard _I _try, all I seem to get are little rebels and misbehaviors."

An odd look of sadness mixed with amusement flashed across his face, and Seychelles was sure he was thinking of America. The look disappeared quite quickly however and made room for one of his familiar, thoughtful, almost endearing scowls.

"Not that I really mind a little rebellion, of course. It can be a tad, well, irksome, but, ah, I suppose it gives the opposition a sense of, well, himself, um, themselves…"

He looked over at Seychelles a little helplessly before regaining his composure.

"Do forgive me, love - sometimes I feel as if I have too many memories swirling about in my head. Work is important, and necessary; business is business, which is why France and I will never see eye to eye, but I suppose the reason I spend the time I do with you is because I understand your hardships. And as much as I cannot and will not be able to escape doing anything to obtain everything that I can, I find that sometimes, well… most of the time, people assume that I am…ah, quite frankly, heartless, a concept I have never wished to be labeled as. I want to make your transition from culture to culture as easy as possible."

England took a breath, slightly winded from this speech and looked mildly impressed with himself, Syechelles noted with amusement. She squeezed his arm lightly and answered carefully, not wanting to injure his clearly apparent pride.

"Well, thank you, England. Let's just say I'm beginning to have my doubts about some of the stories France has told me."

England nodded once, a curt nod, and continued looking ahead.

"Smashing."

They walked on in silence for a while before England perked up and gestured towards the slowly shrinking distance between them and the village huts and cabins.

"I'm willing to wager you haven't tried a genuine English scone, my dear. What say you to a particularly wonderful international delicacy? Quite an improvement from France's overly rich cuisine, if I do say so myself…"

And Seychelles agreed, following England's lead, wondering what new surprise she would be in for now.

_AN - PHEW! Sorry for the delay - lotsa research and drawn out negotiations and talking Nations. I hope you're enjoying my confused England... He's so different from modern England, it's hilarious. And I just adore my confident Seychelles. :3 Omfg, also, the dog collar. See what I did thur? _

_OKAY! No translations, but history time!_

Réunion and Mauritius did surrender to Britain in December of 1810, and they moved on to take Seychelles from there. The day in April was not cold - I just wanted to write that...

Captain Philip Beaver was a cool dude - over a span of about 15 years, he rose through the ranks of the Navy and participated in many conquerings of little islands that belonged to France, or just colonies in general. Ceylon = Sri Lanka and Martinique is a little guy in the Caribbean. He basically just bade his time and kept fucking France's shit up so much he got promoted, and to this day is recognized as an amazing officer who Captained three ships. He died at sea a couple years after taking Seychelles of some crazy foreign fever. Awks.

He left behind a Royal Marine, and Bartholomew Sullivan was a REAL PERSON! But England shall stand as him because I needed an excuse to bring him back. I think it's a really funny name... Oh hon hon hon... His official title is in the chapter, and he basically existed to tell the Seychellois to stop trading slaves, but because the entire island existed on slave trading, he had a hard time doing this. We'll explore this more in the next chapter. Quincy got to keep his status as Justice of the Peace, and Britain pretty much changed nothing whatsoever except for actually owning the entire colony instead of France. But they let the French/citizens who lived there continue to do what they wanted. They left one man to try and dictate British rule. It didn't work so well. :P

_And that's about it! Please let me know if you like this chapter. :) _

_~WhiteWinters _


	18. Start from Scratch

There was little Seychelles could do, however, as the weeks progressed, to help ease the increasing tension England felt as his slave trading tip-offs kept leading him to more and more dead ends. Having to personally travel to wherever his indicator had divulged, with what little maneuvering opportunities he had, was certainly taking its toll. Even his self-promotion to Civil Agent, hoping to induce authority, would not budge the attitudes of her citizens.

And Seychelles really could do nothing about it. Nor did she want to do anything about it.

Despite England's constant, anti-slaving stance, there was little Seychelles tell him, even if she had wanted to help. Her colony literally lived off of the business of slave trading, and some law coming from a brand new legal system belonging to a country halfway across the world was not about to stop the trading from happening. It was that simple.

Seychelles made this very clear to England one evening, as she sat across from him during one of their, by now, routine dinners together.

She watched him stab rather vehemently at a piece of breaded fish after hearing her opinion (Seychelles had insisted on cooking this time; she had learned since the scones) and chomped down on it without his usual meal-time manners. She was sure he would have been livid if today had not been his first truly successful tip-off since he had first shown up here on _Nisus._

This stubborn Nation had actually rowed forty-four kilometres north-east to Seychelles' second largest island, Praslin, to intercept and confiscate a cargo of slaves, recently shipped over from the African coast. It was a success, but a hard fought and basically useless success, considering the increase of tardy tip-offs.

"Yes, Seychelles, you and your people's attitude is becoming known to me with increasing clarity. Ye Gods, I hadn't thought I'd be meeting such belligerent citizenry so soon after -"

He cut himself off and grimaced, finishing off the last of his meal and muttering something about 'needing a drink' before pushing his plate away and standing to grab two small glasses, of which she had only seen in Quincy's cabin, and an unlabeled bottle of what could have only been rum, something Seychelles was not surprised to see come out of his cupboard.

She sighed and rolled her eyes as he poured, accepting the glass (could it even be called a glass?) from England and fervently hoping it did not taste like wine. Fervently hoping she would not have to deal with a drunk, love-struck Nation pining for someone else in her presence so soon after the last one.

He solemnly raised his glass and looked her in the eye from across the table.

"To your lack of honour, shame, and honesty."

Seychelles raised her eyebrows and grinned, touching the edge of her own glass to his, the dark amber liquid catching the rays of the dying sun shining in through the window.

"I'll drink to that."

She watched as England grunted amusedly, closed his eyes, and downed the entirety of his tiny glass before placing it back on the table. She copied his movements, swallowed, and gasped as the unfamiliar burn made its way down her throat.

I I I

"It's, um."

Seychelles squinted at the half empty rum bottle, mouth slightly agape, trying to find the right word. She felt extremely content. But English was hard.

"Sweet," she finally decided.

England snorted and reached across the table, taking the bottle from her and filling his glass once more. He set it down with more force that what was strictly necessary.

"You've never gotten drunk off rum before, love?"

Seychelles bemusedly noticed the casual slur to England's British drawl; she had never heard him use a contraction before, much less 'gotten' as a verb. She blinked and stretched, shaking her head, and frowned as she noticed one faded red ribbon dangling precariously from one side of her head. She didn't really trust the steadiness of her fingers at the moment, so she simply untied them both and placed them on the table, letting her long brown hair fall loosely around her shoulders for the first time in years. She noticed England following her movements in silence.

"_Non, _I've never really been drunk off of anything, to be honest."

As if to prove to herself her indifference on this matter, she drank once more. She had lost track of how many she had taken - maybe five? Six?

"Ah-ha! Then per'aps I should stop drinking now, seeing as it wouldn't be gentl'manly of me t'rob you of your dignity."

He was moving his slender forefinger in slow circles over the rim of the glass, smirking at her; Seychelles stared at it before tearing her riveted gaze away to look England in the eye. She was sure he had had more to drink than her.

"Oh, ha, ha,_ Arthur_, so despite my lack of, _c'etait quoi, _shame, honour, and honesty, I still have some dignity left in me?" She reached over the table, meaning to jab England in the arm, but missed, so she opted to waggle her finger menacingly instead. "An' how _would_ you take my dignity if youhad too much to drink, England, I'm curious."

She smiled lazily and put her hands down flat on the table, one over the other, and rested her chin on the topmost, gazing up at England.

He smiled right back at her and answered smoothly, "Oh, if I'se in the mood to be truly horrid, considering you're _mine _now, I daresay I'd, shall we say, consummate m'claim to you right here, at the mercy of your drink, prob'ly pining for America while at it."

He looked pointedly at her, as if impressed with himself, and went to lift his glass, finishing with a smile: "I'd say that'd sting a righ' bit, for both parties."

Seychelles didn't bat an eyelash as she straightened and leant back in her chair watching England raise his glass.

"Oh, France already tried that years ago - is that the best you've got?"

She laughed loudly as England choked on his drink, drops of rum flying across the table. She jumped up, expecting this, but did not expect the delightful rush to her head as she stood, stumbling slightly to grab a rag to clean up the table.

"Perfect timing, wouldn't you say, _my dear?_"

She giggled at the foreign endearment, and how strange it sounded applied to someone else other than France. She wondered how she would feel now if, that day, France had chosen to drink _with_ her rather than _because_ of her. Would she even be in this strange position, sharing rum with a Nation she had been told to view as an enemy for so long?

England continued to splutter, laughing, she now realized, as she reached over him with the rag she had (suddenly) obtained to clean up any spare droplets. He wiped the back of his hand with his mouth as his laughter finally died down, only after Seychelles had hit him playfully with the rag.

"Did he _really?_"

"_Ah, tais-toi, oui, oui."_

She stuck her tongue out in England's direction and leaned back against the table beside him, trying to disguise her mixed feelings on the subject. Truthfully, at the time of France's sudden advancement, she had been quite scared and confused, of course - what with him toeing the line between friendship and romance. However, now that she was able to call it an experience, she felt somewhat better about herself, more comfortable with the subject. The rum probably helped too, now that she thought about it.

"Mmhm," she continued, quelling any uncertainty her voice tried to betray, "it was act'lly quite awful. And what's worse is that he almost called me _Mathieu."_

Her voice lowered to a dramatic whisper with the last word, and without asking permission, she placed her hands on the table and pushed herself off of the floor to sit upon it, landing heavily with a small 'oof', legs swinging from underneath her as England, clearly not caring, burst into another laughing fit, rubbing his face with his hands a couple times. One came to rest on the table and the other patted her knee one, two, three times, staying there after the third pat.

"A sentimental git, I say. What rubbish he's put you through, eh, darlin'?"

He looked up at her, blond hair perhaps a little messier than usual, the scent of sweat and salt water and rum pleasantly strong from such a close distance. She sighed and rolled her eyes once more, leaning back on both hands and gazing absent-mindedly at England's hand on her knee, as if not really seeing it.

"I dunno if I'd call it rubbish. A lot of confusion, that's for sure."

England started and pulled his hand back, and Seychelles distinctly noticed the lack of heat, or wait, was it wrong of her to think that, considering it was England and not France, _et merde_, the confusion was rushing back once again as England rested his chin upon his fist, propped up on his elbow and studied her.

"Yes, Seychelles, I do believe that may be the only thing we're good for. Nations, I mean. We're only good for confusion," he clarified, and Seychelles wondered if his head felt as pleasantly fuzzy as hers did.

They continued looking at each other, words lost, time passing. Moonlight shone through the window, and the waves, as ever, danced at the shore, until England, for whatever reason, shook himself and looked away, taking his chin from his hand and slowly standing up, as if afraid he would stumble if he moved too fast.

Well, it's gettin' on, my dear, and as surprisin'ly, ah, enjoyable as this ev'nin' has been, work will surely be calling in the morning."

Seychelles did not move for a long while. She continued to sit as England washed the glasses in a bucket of water by the wall of the house, and as he put them, and the bottle back in their respective places. She watched his every move, slow and focused, studying him as he had studied her, only speaking when he made to grab his long red coat (that she liked so much), confused.

"_Tu fais quoi?_"

He looked at her, bemused, as he tried valiantly to shove his hand into the sleeve of his coat.

"Surely, you'll allow me the pleasure of walking you home, Seychelles. Only because you've had a bit to drink, of course," he added, and Seychelles was slightly horrified to feel the hint of a blush creep up the side of her face. She hid this by turning and collecting her ribbons, pushing them into the pocket fold of her dress, smiling to herself. She hopped off the table, holding a corner to steady her landing and walked purposefully over to England's side to help his flailing arm find the second coat sleeve.

"I'd have thought you wouldn't have time for chivalry, England."

She winked and smiled, hand lingering on his sleeve before turning towards the door, wary of her footing.

England scoffed and followed after her, blowing out the candles they had lit previously and shutting the door after him.

"I realize France is s'pposed to be the country of romance, but I like to believe I'm capable of demonstrating a little charm of my own."

Flustered, England seemed to forget the small step between his door and the slight decline in the land, and his foot slammed down upon the ground, eliciting fresh cursing and more stumbling. Already ahead of him, Seychelles turned and caught his arm, laughing, and they leaned against one another as they began to make their way slowly to Quincy's cabin.

"Oh, yes," Seychelles smiled. "Charming."

"Do shut up," England griped, trying to elbow her in the ribs. However, as their sides were pressed so close together, this proved to be quite the hopeless endeavour.

They fell into a, dare Seychelles admit it, comfortable silence, listening to the waves on the shore, the leaves of the trees in the breeze, and the sound of each other's breathing. After a while, she noticed the fuzziness in her head slowly begin to abate, but did not take this as an excuse to move away from England's side.

Perhaps she had unintentionally moved in a little closer, for England suddenly moved his right arm from hers and instead draped it across her waist, ensuring she wouldn't trip. They both glanced at each other at the same time, and looked quickly away the second their eyes met.

Seychelles looked straight ahead of her, marvelling at how different England's company was compared to France's interactions with her in the past. She recalled how France had suddenly_ appeared , _working his way into her life with a fiery passion, never leaving her side, dictating her opinions and decisions, teaching her anything and everything he possibly could in such a short whirlwind of time. She understood that he had had the best intentions for her, but oh how she wished she had not been so young, so malleable.

Whereas now, spending time with England, she had her own personality, her own colony, and her own decisions to make, not based upon what her first mentor wanted her to believe, but based on what was right for the prosperity of Seychelles. These past weeks with England had not been a calamitous rush of emotion and (false?) longing, but a start from scratch, slowly and steadily getting to know each other for who they were. Knowing that she had opinions that clashed with England's somehow made her feel as if she had developed a bit more _self_, so to speak. She had grown into someone she was comfortable being, and how she wished France could see her now, as opposed to the indecisive little colony she had been ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred years ago.

But instead, she had the British Empire himself. Who had, at first introduction, suggested he lead her around on a leash like a dog.

She smiled to herself in the darkness. Some friendship.

But it felt...right. Or at least more right than the desperation France had thrust upon her. She understood, of course, the trials France and his country had recently gone through: The Seven Years War, the loss of Canada, the ongoing Revolution, the seizing of colonies, Napoleon's lust for power... But was it really right of him to drink his sorrows away and drunkenly crawl to her to seek 'solace?'

No, Seychelles decided. No, it was not right. And this was shy she appreciated England's company, his educated counsel.

She realized then with a rush that she did not fear England's presence, as France had so often told her to do so in the past. What she did fear, however, as she began to notice just how physically close, at this moment, they really were, was how willingly she was able to accept it. She had genuinely believed him when he told her he didn't want to be constantly labeled as 'heartless,' that politics and control was not always first and foremost on his mind.

Finally, they reached Quincy's cabin, and England, sensing her discomfort, pulled her to the side of the house, turning so that he faced her, a hand on her shoulder. His grasp was so different from when they had first met, calm and steadying as opposed to harsh and controlling. What had changed?

Everything.

England reached out with his other hand and lightly brushed her loose hair behind an ear. And Seychelles found herself exploding with memories of the same gesture, only carried out by someone so different, yet so alike, and the face so close to hers flitted from France's to England's and back and forth again, longing for both and having to choose, or not to choose, but all she had done was run, and maybe this time she would stand her ground...

But there was always someone else. She was too new, too isolated to know how greatly each Nation affected one another, how emotionally buoyed or distraught they made each other, which only added to the tumultuous feelings of the citizens they represented, and Seychelles still couldn't decide if she was being disloyal, independent, or simply curious, or if she should just wait another couple hundred years until she could interact more freely with others before jumping into relationships (relationships?) with older, wiser, more important Nations than herself, or, or, or...

To her embarrassment, England had moved his hand from her hair to the corner of her eye, wiping away a stray tear that had unfortunately decided to form there despite her efforts to contain her composure.

"What is it, my dear Seychelles?"

The colony in question lightly grabbed England's wrist, keeping his hand from drifting away from her face, and looked, really looked into his eyes. Her breath hitched and she tried to find the words to explain her doubts and her wishes and her wants all at once, but the only thing that came out of her mouth, all trace of slur gone was:

"Would you _really _only think of America?"

England blinked, but didn't move, staring back at her, expression pained.

"Would _you _not think only of France?"

Her heart seemed to stop and immediately, an answer popped into her head.

"I don't know."

England stepped closer, grip tightening slightly on her shoulder.

"In that case, to answer your question" he spoke clearly as well, voice lowering to a whisper, "neither do I."

Seychelles wanted ever so badly to lift her hand and run her fingers through England's tousled blond hair, but didn't dare, leaving her palms pressed against the side of the cabin. They were so close.

She hardly dared to breathe.

"Did - did you want to find out?"

And then, as if pressing her against the side of a wall wasn't provocative enough, England kissed her, confidently, and without hesitation.

All was still; time seemed to stop with England's kiss; not only did colonies, islands, and civilizations bend to England's will, but so did time itself. The waves stopped lapping, the breeze died down, and the native fauna fell silent. There was nothing other than England's mouth on hers, assured, but not invasive, apprehensive, but not unwilling.

And after several seconds of the world disappearing, everything rushed back at once with a roar of sound as England stepped back, breaking the kiss, looking at her with the strangest expression. Neither fear, nor uncertainty; those were not becoming of the world's greatest empire. No, it was something akin to gratitude, and Seychelles was sure the same expression in his eyes mirrored that of her own.

She smiled and allowed England's hands to fall back to his sides. She closed the gap he had created and straightened his crimson collar so that he wouldn't have to. Her fingers lingered at the hollow of this throat before she stepped back once more and regarded him, her new claimant standing in front of her with an echo of her own smile adorning his face.

"Thank you for walking me home...England."

She had almost said Arthur, almost, but at the last second it had seemed too personal.

"Charmed." He winked and his smile grew ever so slightly.

With a gracious bow of his head, he turned from her and walked back the way they had come, disappearing into the darkness, and leaving Seychelles wondering what the hell she had gotten herself into this time.

_AN - ...I really didn't plan for more alcohol; forgive meeeee it just happened. (shot) I also had no feelins whatsoever for Eng/Sey when I started this, nor did I plan to have 18 chapters a,ready - waaat. Thank you so much to all of those who have stuck with me - it means so much!_

Translations: C'était quoi = **what was it **Tais-toi = **shut up **Tu fais quoi = **what are you doing?**

Historical notes: Bartholomew Sullivan/England's account of every shitty thing that happened to him is all true. He only really had that one success on Praslin among a butt-load of failures. The quote about Seychelles 'lack of shame, honour, and honesty' is the actual reason Sullivan gave for leaving the island. Yeah, he leaves - it's inevitable.

The rest is just them being silly, adorable drunks. I loved it. Hope you do too. ;) Please review and until next time!


	19. Just Watch Me

Seychelles woke the next morning, disgruntled, but thankfully not confused out of her mind. This somewhat normal idea of 'getting to know one another' had paid off in the sense that she was no longer left reeling and dazed, but, was now faced with the issue of facing England sober, not to mention having to find a way to demand more in the little time it would undoubtedly take for England to give up entirely on his fruitless mission and leave her colony.

She smiled, however, at the hilarious thought of England having to complete such a task this morning, as well as at the comforting sounds of Quincy bustling around in the main section of the cabin.

Surprisingly eager, Seychelles leapt out of bed, barely managing to conceal the grin that just didn't want to go away (stop it, what the hell), getting ready and walking outside, hair still falling loosely around her shoulders.

She was met with Quincy, also half-irritated, muttering to himself and replacing a fancy looking document on the wall with another. The former was in French and the replacement was written completely in English.

_"Ce quoi ça, Jean,"_ she asked, grabbing a banana from the counter, sitting, peeling it, and taking a bite.

"This," Quincy answered with a sigh, smoothing out the paper, "is my new official title now that we are under new ownership. Where once I was _un commandant français, _I am now a British Ambassador to _Seychelles_."

He spoke her name slowly, in a horrendous attempt at a British accent and the colony in question 'pfft'd' around her banana and rolled her eyes at the unnecessary English modifications that Britain actually believed were doing something to help sway the French-African population away from France.

"Yes, my thoughts exactly, _ma chère. _Although, if you would excuse me, word has been sent to me of the imminent arrival of our very first Civilian Administrator. His name is Edward Magde and he's due to arrive in about two weeks; I must see that the necessary preparations are made."

Seychelles knew that Quincy liked to work in private when it came to important matters and saw herself out, placing a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder before walking out the door.

She turned sharply to the left, throwing her banana peel into the trees before turning again and walking back the way she had come, stalling before going to see England again. The sun was still somewhat low in the morning sky, and the first thing she had learned about England was that he did not waste a moment's time when it came to getting his work done, hung-over or not. It would probably be a bad idea to interrupt him now, she reasoned.

So, she decided to walk around her settlement, something she hadn't really done before, to her mild self-disappointment. No better time than the present, she reprimanded herself.

She roamed freely, there being too many people to really recognize her face with the intent of following up on it - these citizens were too busy focusing on surviving in a civilization stuck between prosperity and failure.

It was everything a new settlement should look like: beaten down foot-paths that served as roads, a semblance of a pattern of cabins, shabby but not in disarray, and citizens with well-worn smiles on their faces, occasionally shouting out greetings to friends or acquaintances.

Nobody ever stopped, Seychelles couldn't help noticing, however, and baskets of crops and vegetables were always present, always moving from one set of hands to another. It was a hard life, she noted with sad satisfaction, but her people seemed happy, and that was enough to make her happy as well.

She sighed as she realized how greatly she wanted France to see her colony now that it had grown. How she wished he could see _her _now that she had grown. She wanted him to see her as England saw her - as an equal, and not some young thing he could take advantage of because he couldn't cope with loss.

She had already forgiven him, of course. It wasn't like she was about to hold a grudge against her first friend she had ever met and would be likely to have for the rest of her life; that would be silly. She just wished he knew that she had done so. Maybe his delay between visits was in part due to his fearing her reaction, not being able to face what he had almost done.

Seychelles just wanted to be friends with him again. Compared to who she was now, the past seemed relatively unimportant.

The day grew steadily warmer, and she squinted up at the noon sun.

It would have to be close to lunch time by now, she figured, the excuse to see England clicking soundly into place and the thought of France slipping away just as easily. She was actually quite proud of herself for showing such restraint thus far - after that first kiss, she was not about to let England get away with giving her nothing more before he left to check back up on his own country.

What was more, she was learning what it meant to be a part of this whole Nation business, and becoming more familiar with it as well. Their responsibilities required their presence in several places at once; a Nation was never guaranteed to be in one spot for too long. Unless, of course, they were a tiny archipelago in the middle of an ocean and had nowhere else to go, or something. England's lengthy stay was probably pretty rare, Seychelles reasoned, and she was lucky to be able to spend so much time with a Nation she liked as a person, not once she was forced to like.

Not that she didn't like France - that was far from the truth, but France was not here at the moment, England was; her appetite for knowledge and experience had grown no less insatiable, and she needed to gain said experience somehow.

She grimaced at how business-like she sounded; perhaps England was rubbing off on her too much. But she dismissed the thought just as quickly, considering it was the truth, and if this was who she was growing up to be, then so be it. Plus, the thought of standing her ground as opposed to running away made Seychelles' mind swell slightly with pride and daring.

She marvelled at her newfound curiosity - now that she had decided to really open herself up to a Nation of her own free will, her mind jumped from one possibility to the next concerning other Nation's relationships: were England's feelings reciprocated by America? Did France initiate his relationship with Canada, or was it the other way around? Who was _she_ compared to everyone else these Nations had had relations with, and how could she make herself special, remembered?

Her train of thought derailed, suddenly, as she realized with a start that her feet had automatically carried her to the front of England's cabin. She hesitated for a split second, ultimately confirming her final decision on the matter, and raised a hand to know on the door.

Her knuckles met thin air however, as the door chose that moment to be opened by a coat and hat adorned England who, upon seeing her, cocked his head to the side looking a bit unsure of himself. However, this look did not last long as he quickly grew flustered and, to Seychelles' great amusement, blushed slightly, holding the door back for her with a 'well, what are you waiting for' and gesturing for her to come in, as if that had been his intention all along.

Smiling coyly and saying nothing, she stepped in and, after the door had closed, helped England out of his coat, hanging it on the correct hook and turning back to face him, heat now creeping up her own cheeks. But she didn't really mind.

"England-" she stepped forward, heart suddenly beating at a mile a minute, but was cut-off mid stride and mid sentence as the Nation in question put up a hand to stop her, his lips quirked down in a thoughtful frown of epic proportions.

She waited, expectant, but unsure of the reason of his hesitation.

England crossed his arms and opened his mouth to speak; after a second he closed it again, and Seychelles could almost hear his pride battling with whatever else it was he was trying to resolve. He sighed, resigned, and _almost_ slouched before thinking better of it and snapping back to his always perfect posture.

Seychelles raised her eyebrow and he scoffed, raising his hands in the air and letting them fall back down to his sides, sitting with a thump in the nearest chair. He opened his mouth once more, and this time, words emerged.

"Understand, Seychelles, that in the many, many years I have been a Nation, and have had to experience the cruelties of others such as myself, only one, other than yourself, has ever willingly shown me any genuine romantic interest.

"I have shown and have been shown," here he grimaced and spat the word out, "_affection_ to and by other Nations, but only out of necessity, force, or manipulation, which, I am sure you can imagine, is neither enjoyable nor particularly amiable."

Here he paused, the great British Empire, and looked into her eyes, disparity apparent.

"I...well. That is to say... It should be clear to you as to why I may come off as a tad hesitant."

Seychelles stared back at him, eyes wide as she bit her bottom lip in awe. Here was the unbeatable British Empire, mighty and proud, but unable to trust anyone because he had never received any trust in return.

_It must be terrible_, she thought, but did not speak.

"I'm...I'm sorry it didn't work out with America," she whispered. She grabbed her left elbow with her opposite hand, unsure of where to put her arms. This was certainly not how she had envisioned this meeting would go.

England, instead of flinching, sighing, negatively reacting, or what have you, narrowed his eyes confusedly and leaned forward ever so slightly in his chair.

"You misunderstand, my dear, I was referring to Portugal, not America; it's not right for me to show any romantic interest to the lad yet. For almost two hundred years I acted as his father and then his brother. It wouldn't have been right for me to ask anymore of him."

And just like that, Seychelles had her answer, had her confirmation, had her decision.

She walked forward, a small genuine smile on her face, and took England's hand both of hers, inviting him to stand. He did, slowly rising to meet her, free hand automatically falling to rest on her hip.

A thrill coursed through her as she looked into his eyes. As much as she tried to keep her voice steady, it shook with the realization of England's act.

"T-thank you, England. Now I see... That was something France could never do. He-he always wanted more. Kept changing the lyrics of _Frère Jacques _to 'ma soeur Nation' or 'mon frère Nation,' and he would teach me and counsel me and, and-"

She gasped at her words, staring at a point on England's left shoulder, but kept going, clutching his hand ever tighter. He continued to listen.

"And then he would try to kiss me, or, or touch me, or insinuate that I was supposed to give him more, and...and..."

Here she forced her gaze up to look directly at England. She understood now. All thoughts of experience, or business, or whatever the hell she was thinking about before evaporated as she looked into England's green eyes. She understood now.

"And that's why you can trust me. I see you for who you are. Not a bloodthirsty Empire, not some horrible figment of France's imagination, not _heartless._ Overly formal, and a little power hungry, sure, but someone who understands what their place should be. Someone who understood me. And I can't thank you enough for that."

England took his hand from hers and placed it softly against her cheek, cool against her heated skin. His smile, however, still betrayed a touch of worry.

"I will not deny that I came here to escape my troubles with America. I am, of course, thrilled that I was able to find myself in this situation, with you, but I do hope you are aware that I am not using you as a means for my escape...not anymore."

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. The contact gave her courage.

"Hey," she said soothingly. "We're Nations, aren't we? We need to take what we can get while we have it. And what I have at this moment I wouldn't give up for the world."

England laughed and slid his hand from her hip to her back, holding her against him.

"You haven't even seen the world yet, love."

"Shut up," she whispered against his lips, for once not caring to fight against the breathlessness, and kissed him.

The silence roared.

After a moment of perfect stillness, their lips and bodies moved together and Seychelles realized that she had no idea whatsoever what to do with her hands. There were so many body parts to think of! She placed one hand on his waist and the other haphazardly on his shoulder, trying to maneuver it so that it fit between his collar bone and his shoulder blade. When this utterly failed, England responded by taking it and placing it flat over his chest, over his heart, and she just about lost it at the sweetness of such a gesture.

She pressed forward, taking in as much of England as she could; he obliged by submitting his mouth to hers, allowing her this dance. She embraced his mouth with her own, teeth nipping at his lower lip, eliciting a small moan from the Nation in front of her. She grinned against him at this small satisfaction.

And with that thrilling sound, something changed. Their actions became more frenzied, heated, feral, as if all the Nations of the world would personally appear tomorrow to whisk England away from her.

She moved forward, relishing her height, and eventually pushed him back against a wall, gasping as England's lips moved from her mouth to the curve of her neck, and the hollow of her collarbone. His calloused hands moved slowly up and down her back, bunching up the folds of her blue dress.

His lips moved back up her neck to graze her cheek, her ear; they were both breathing heavily by now: shuddering breaths.

"I take it you've never moved beyond this point before," England whispered against her ear, and Seychelles shivered at the low, growling tone to his accent as it washed over her.

"N-no." She laughed, eyes wide, as England suddenly turned and placed one hand behind her knees and the other behind her back, scooping her up and walking towards his bed. He kissed her once and set her gently down when they got there, before straightening and pulling the curtain across the window, dulling some of the light streaming through.

He turned his attention back to Seychelles, his smile playful and his eyes hooded. He bent over her and kissed her, taking her in, hands roving down her shoulders, her chest, her stomach, lower and lower, brushing over bare legs...

"In that case," he murmured, slipping the sleeves of her dress off of her shoulders, "I'll take good care of you, darling."

Here he paused, hands placed on the bed beside each side of her head, and looked at her.

"If you're okay to continue, that is."

Seychelles smiled and hoped that the gratitude was apparent in her eyes as she nodded, not trusting herself to speak, arms wrapped around the back of England's neck. She pulled him down towards her so that they could embark on this part of their journey together.

They set sail.

I I I

Three days later, Seychelles stayed the night at England's house for the first time.

Four days after _that_, which included a very red-eared and spluttering Nation, England politely implied that Seychelles should simply call him by name, because voicing such titles in the middle of a settlement was bloody ridiculous. So she did just that.

By the end of the next week, England's entire store of rum was gone, his familiarity with the island was enhanced, and, in the evenings, Seychelles personally saw to it that he paid more attention to her than to his paperwork.

Finally, after no further successes at banishing the slave trade, the looming threat of Napoleon invading his home country, and the arrival of a certain Civil Administrator, Edward Magde, it was time for England to return home.

Seychelles stood with him on the beach, the day of his departure, straightening his collar and trying desperately to keep a neutral face, devoid of tears or sadness. She had had something truly special with England, and she wasn't about to let a gap of a few years encroach on the happiness and gratitude she felt towards his efforts of helping her.

"You need to be careful, my dear," England was saying, practical as always. "This Edward chap is not aware of the position you hold, and will therefore treat you as less than you are probably used to being treated by myself and by Quincy. I've also heard he is a bit of a twit."

Seychelles laughed shakily and let her hands fall, slowly, from England's collar. She smiled wanly and forced herself to hold his gaze, losing herself in those green eyes.

"Thanks, Arthur. Glad to know you're looking out for me."

England cleared his throat and glanced to his left, watching the crew prepare to disembark from the ship and row ashore. He looked back with a sigh, reaching forward to take Seychelles' hand in his own, lacing their fingers together.

"Of course, I...well. I do not know when I'll be able to come back and visit, my dear, nor do I know how different the times will be when I do. I -"

He shut his eyes and shook his head, squeezing her hand before opening them again to look at her once more.

"Bollocks - that didn't sound right; I'm sorry -"

"No, it's okay," she interrupted, smiling despite herself. She had had her fair share of ill-planned speeches with France; it wasn't her place to judge.

"I'm stronger now than I've ever been thanks to you, and you need to do what you need to do, okay? Just do me a favour and don't drown in your paperwork, alright, Arthur? And... And don't forget me," she whispered these last few words.

England smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling pleasantly. He took her chin in one hand, pulling her close and kissing her, once last time. His lips lingered on hers, stealing her breath and comforting her, all at once.

"I don't know if I can avoid the former," he murmured blithely against her lips, "but I can most certainly promise to never forget you, my sweet Seychelles."

She beamed and moved to the side so that she could embrace him. His strong arms enveloped her frame; there were no twirls, no sudden movements, no flirtatious remarks, just the same serene understanding they had come to realize regarding one another.

One final squeeze and they parted; the rowboats had reached the shore.

England pressed her hand once more to his heart, and the reassurance spilling from his smile was all Seychelles needed to know that it would be alright, in the end.

"Goodbye, Arthur - I'll miss you!" She winked and let his hand fall from her own.

"Ta-ta, my love. I shall see you soon."

With that, England turned to leave her and her island, turned to return to his own country, turned to travel the world, to stretch himself thin over countries, continents, and oceans, fighting the good fight, and, win or lose, carry on to face whatever came next.

Seychelles may have been just a part of the grand scheme of things, merely a piece of the world's puzzle, this Nation's puzzle, but she truly believed she had managed to earn her way into its centrepiece, a part of his puzzle England would never forget. Or, at least, she could hope she had.

She watched as England shook hands with the Captain, and with who could only be Edward Magde, before climbing into the boat with the first-mate, ready to make way once more. As the boat slid smoothly away, his eyes did not leave hers.

And when, after a few minutes, the boat had reached the shore and England had taken his natural place at the helm, he looked back at her and placed his own hand over his heart, then waved, just once, a simple gesture, and turned away for good, shouting at his men to hoist canvas and weigh anchor, a sense of finality to his voice.

Seychelles realized, belatedly, thinking of France's question to her on the beach so many years ago, that it was a perfect goodbye. She felt sad, of course, but mostly happy and gratuitous, bursting with joy at the thought of the weeks she had spent with England. She wouldn't have traded that time for anything.

She started, as a hand fell softly on her shoulder.

Looking to her right to its origin, she smiled once more at Quincy, who had evidently just shown up to see Mr. Magde to England's, no, the empty house waiting for him in the settlement.

_"Ça va, Séchelles?"_

"_Ça va,"_ she replied without a hint of doubt.

Yes, she was fine. More than fine, actually. She had the support of France himself, the compassion of the great Empire England, and the ever-present friendship of Jean-Baptiste Queau de Quincy. She was ready to face this 'twit,' Edward Magde. She was ready to face the world.

_Just watch me._

__AN - Ooooh, I like that ending. :P Uuuum, yeah! Things will get more historical from now on, so I hope you liked my England Arc!

Translations: ce quoi ça = **what's that ** commandant français = **French Commander ** First 'Ça va' = ** are you alright? **Second = **I'm fine.**

****Historical notes: Bye-bye to England/Bartholomew Sullivan! Being a colonial governor/commissioner to Seychelles just wasn't good enough for him, I guess...

Erryone, including Quincy, got their titles British-ified, which I find hilarious.

Lots of mentions about Edward Magde, to act as Seychelles 'Civilian Administrator,' whatever the hell that is - you'll find out more about him in the next chapter! Please bear in mind that there have been many Seychelles governors/commissioners/administrators over the years, but I'm only including the ones who had any major influence over Seychelles history. Otherwise this story would never end. Wikipedia has a nice little section listing Seychelles' colonial governors, if you're really curious. :P

Britain and Portugal, interestingly enough, have the oldest still-standing alliance in the world. The 'Anglo-Portuguese Alliance' was established in 1373! If that isn't a reason for a genuine romantic relationship, I don't know what is. ;)

We are in the midst of the Napoleonic Wars, don't forget! I think England should prolly get his ass back to Europe and Lord Nelson so he can put a stop to them Frenchies. No offense, French readers... :P

_Thanks again for reading! I'm going on vacation for a week, so the next chapter won't be up for a while. Please review and I'll see you soon!_

_-WhiteWinters_


	20. Identity: Tumultuous

The look on Mr. Magde's face, however, as he approached the pair soon quelled any and all positive and determined thoughts from Seychelles' mind. He walked pointedly up the beach along with one other important looking man and the ship's previous captain. His face matched his apparel: crisp, collected, pale, and pressed to perfection, hidden under dark brown hair and a black, folded sailor's hat.

Seychelles chanced a glance at Quincy and despaired at the way his lips pressed together, as if he suspected that the only way this meeting could go was badly.

Magde and his companions finally reached their location, the former coolly studying each of their faces. He spoke in a clear, no-nonsense manner, neither loud nor soft, but with an air that positively screamed defiance.

"Mr. Quincy, I'm assuming, and do forgive me, but I do not believe I've had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Miss..."

He trailed off and to her belated horror, Seychelles realized that he was talking to her, expecting a name.

"My name is Saya," she blurted out, trying to steady her voice as much as possible. "Saya Michelle. You may call me Saya, Mr. Magde."

He nodded, satisfied by her response, and turned abruptly to speak to Quincy, as if she had never existed in the first place.

"Well, Mr. Quincy, I regret to inform you that this will be somewhat of an awkward conversation, but I shall be blunt. I," he gestured to his right, "along with Bibye Lasage, are here to relieve you of your position of British Ambassador to Seychelles."

His words skimmed right over the look of shock and indignation that had come over Quincy's face, as did Lasage's curt nod of introduction.

"In standard protocol of heightened colonial security, Mr. Lasage will be taking _your_ position while I shall take on the title of Civil Administrator, something new to this colony; I am hoping her and her citizens will be eager to learn from its implications."

Hardly an inhale before he ploughed on.

"We have deemed it fit to allow you to keep your title of Justice of the Peace, however, all civil and administrative duties now belong to myself and Lasage - is this all perfectly clear?"

He raised an eyebrow, his hands behind his back, anticipating Quincy's rebuttal. The two others copied his movements exactly. It would have been funny if the situation hadn't been so serious.

Quincy's mouth opened and closed like a fish, and Seychelles realized that she had never before seen him at such a loss for words. After an uncomfortable delay, however, he spoke.

"I...Mr. Magde, I - I first commanded Mahé nineteen years ago, and have helped this colony to survive for just as long! I've seen her and taught her to grow from almost nothing into a settlement of thousands! You simply cannot expect me to believe that you two, who have only just arrived, have the power to throw me out of my office!"

Quincy's words increased in volume with every word, and Seychelles understood why. Who were these two strangers to tell this man, who had sacrificed almost twenty years of his life towards a remote archipelago in the middle of the Indian Ocean, that he suddenly wasn't allowed to anymore? It was, as Quincy had said, unbelievable.

Magde sniffed and had the audacity to roll his eyes in their direction before speaking once more. His voice took on a clipped, angry tone that Seychelles immediately disliked. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an official looking document, still sealed.

"Let me say this once, _Mr. _ Quincy, and once only. This," he said, handing the scroll to Quincy, who indignantly snatched it away, "has the royal power and authority to give me and my partner command of this island chain. Our government and monarch have deemed it high time we tighten our hold on some of _our _more...isolated colonies. The only way to accomplish this, of course, is to have a leader of strictly English blood supervise the day-to-day goings on that occur here."

A final pause; a sinister glint in his eye.

"While I am sure _France _appreciates your lengthy dedication to Seychelles, _Britain_ believes that it is time that you...retired, so to speak."

Quincy seemed to deflate, and Seychelles noticed the slight tremor in his hands as he clutched the royal document to his chest. After a few seconds, he nodded: rigid, curt.

"If that is all, I pray my leave of you."

Madge's lips quirked down in a frown, not thoughtful like England's, but cruel.

"Of course. Thank you for your understanding."

Quincy turned to leave without another word; Seychelles hastily ran after him. She didn't get far, however, before Magde spoke up once more.

"Oh, Saya?"

Seychelles froze as she realized he was referring to her. She gestured to Quincy to keep walking and slowly turned back around to face the Englishmen.

"Yes, sirs," she asked cautiously.

"If you don't mind, we need someone to show us to our cabin."

He signalled, and Lasage and the Captain each grabbed one end of the rowboat; they looked at her expectantly and she started, turning to lead them away from the beach with a quick 'of course.'

She walked briskly, hoping to make this trip as short as possible. Her heart lurched as she re-traced the familiar steps to what had been England's cabin, now to be occupied by very different residents. She sighed as she heard Magde's somewhat heavy breathing behind her.

"You must be an intelligent, capable young woman to have found employment with the reputable Mr. Quincy."

"Thank you for the compliment; I try my best," Seychelles responded through gritted teeth.

"Well," Magde continued, oblivious to her anger, "if you find you have less to do for Mr. Quincy these coming days, there will always be room with us if you wish to seek more...challenging opportunities."

Seychelles' eyes widened and she purposefully kept her gaze straight ahead, averting it from Magde.

"I will do what I can to see that you are comfortably settled in, however, I am not, nor will I ever be your servant."

She saw with relief that they were approaching England's, no Magde's cabin. "Here we are, sirs," she said stiffly. "If you will excuse me."

"I heard the reason Mr. Sullivan resigned was because of your colony's lack of shame, honour, and honesty," Magde interrupted her attempt at slipping away.

"He did say that." Seychelles remembered that night with a flicker of emotion and looked Magde in the eye for the first time since her introduction.

"And he did leave. But you know what I think?" She paused, her question rhetorical. "I think when it comes to shame, honour, and honesty, the British may simply have too much. Good day."

Without waiting for a response, she turned away, making her way back to Quincy, escaping for now from her inevitable reality.

I I I

She found Quincy back at his cabin, sitting with his head in his hands; he looked up as Seychelles opened the door. He seemed so tired and, well, _old, _and she wondered why it had taken her so long to see that. He had been, what, almost fifty when he had first come to her island? What did that make him now? Seventy?

A memory flashed before her eyes of all who had been a part of Quincy's life, and who he would inevitably be leaving behind.

_Barely a year had passed since she had met him, before Quincy began to show signs of genuinely deciding to settle down on Seychelles. _

_He met a, not young, but beautiful French-Catholic woman from Laurient, France, Marie-Joseph Dubail, and whisked her away from Mauritius to Seychelles, so that they could be together. Marie easily accepted Seychelles as a sister to the daughter she had already cared for on her own, though no longer alone, young Josephine-Aimée. _

_She remembered their wedding day, a joyous occasion, late 1794; she had never seen Jean look so happy. _

_Children followed, three of them: Josephine-Anne, Josephine-Henriette, and Célestine-Jeanne. Seychelles had certainly been sad when Marie-Joseph and the children moved to a bigger cabin, but it was for the best, and Jean, when not busy being the sole Commander of a colony, visited them so often... _

_His children grew (his youngest just turned six), his family prospered, and he still managed to devote so much time to preparing Seychelles for the struggle ahead of her... _

Just how did nineteen years manage to conceal itself in the blink of an eye?

Finally understanding this, Seychelles ran to her teacher, her friend, and embraced him, feeling the aching weariness in his bones. He said nothing, yet wrapped his arms around his Nation in return.

"To me," she whispered, "you alone are the beacon that saved Seychelles. And you always will be."

I I I

England, acting as Bartholomew Sullivan, had left at the beginning of 1812, Edward Magde and Bibye Lasage taking his place immediately after, continuing to allow French traditions to dominate Seychellois life, but tightening their hold on slavery, as England never could with only himself to rely on.

Months passed before the newly arrived Englishmen had properly settled and made their intentions well known to the Seychellois.

In all honesty, Seychelles thought as she observed their actions, these new leaders didn't really do much of anything, other than take away almost each and every duty from Quincy. She hadn't yet taken up Magde's offer, nor did she ever intend to.

Life merely ticked on; nothing new really happened, nor did anything distinctly good or bad. 1812 slipped into 1813, into 1814, into 1815; Lasage had pulled an England by giving his job to Magde and leaving with the British captain back to their island, and Seychelles sighed as she suddenly realized she hadn't seen France in fifteen years.

It was funny how her heart panged for two entirely different reasons when she thought of her two Nations, England and France. She constantly wondered what they were up to, what adventure they were now living that took their time away from her.

She found herself endlessly distracted by these kinds of thoughts, having almost literally nothing else to do. Every day was the same: help the colony however she could, help Quincy get by, and help organize the supplies that kept coming in from Mauritius, rinse and repeat.

Oh, how she looked forward to the day she wouldn't have to be so dependent on that little island; even her own government answered to the colony, calling hers insubordinate - insubordinate!

Life here was pleasant enough - even the slaves were treated with respect - but stagnant.

For seven long, uneventful years, Magde remained Commissioner, creating a very neutral reputation for himself among the Seychellois. Over the years he had almost nothing to do with her or Quincy, choosing to focus more on his work, rather than on his 'people.'

Then, as if he had suddenly had enough, he left his position in 1822, a figure who had caused her and Quincy so much trouble at the beginning, was gone from their lives, and yet his disruptions still lingered.

Soon enough, a George Harrison took his place as Commissioner, and life moved on without much notice. Quincy, however, had never really been the same after his forced retirement. Work had kept him young looking, invigorated, and healthy. Now, his lack of governance as well as an added seven years had not done much to improve his physical and mental capabilities.

Therefore, Seychelles spent as much time as she could with Quincy, encouraging him to keep tutoring her in whatever he could; when mathematics, geography, history, and politics was exhausted on her, he resorted to teaching her more far-fetched lessons - to fire a rifle, the latest military innovation after muskets.

Day after day, Quincy's advancing age became more and more apparent. She had never really thought that she would one day have to experience the inevitability of the passage of time and have it affect her so personally. Two-thirds of her close friends were Nations, and she knew she would never have to face the idea of them, well..._passing._ But Quincy was very much human, and Seychelles was becoming rapidly aware of this concept; it scared and depressed her more than she would have thought possible.

For one day in 1826, after Quincy had slept for a frighteningly long time (well into the afternoon), Seychelles understood it was time to finally reach out to someone else for help. She steeled herself, made a decision, and went personally to the Commissioner's office, hoping to shed a little light on the current situation and what was to be done in the future.

When she arrived, she knocked on what had once been England's door, slightly nervous, as she had never really interacted much with the current Commissioner in the past three years of his term, something that really needed to change, considering her substantial role in this colony.

She needed to bring herself to understand that not all Commissioners would be similar to Magde, and that, as sad as it was, Quincy's time as a reliable influence was running out. She needed to make contact once more, just as she had with Quincy all those years ago.

She smiled as best as she could as the Commissioner bade her enter, and opened the door, shutting it behind her.

Commissioner Harrison looked up from his paper-work and smiled as his eyes lit upon her. She relaxed as his pleasant demeanor washed over her. He seemed calm, trusting, credible; he was about sixty years old, with long, silvery blond hair pulled back in a ponytail.

He looked her up and down once, ascertaining her Seychellois heritage and gestured to a chair in front of his desk; she sat. This was truly more office-like than it had been when England had occupied it.

"I am sorry, but do you speak English," Harrison spoke overly clearly and Seychelles smiled at the amiable tone to his voice, as well as his unfortunate opening statement. She nodded, amused, and he looked relieved.

"I must apologize for my utter lack of knowledge of the French language - I was rather rushed into this position," he said, still smiling. "What can I help you with, Miss...?"

"Oh, my name is Saya Michelle, but you can call me Saya," Seychelles having no choice but to use those random assortment of syllables as a name once more, did so. "And don't worry about the French, Mr. Harrison, I'm more than comfortable with English."

The Commissioner seemed surprised and he clasped his hands on top of the desk in front of him.

"Yes, I can tell; thank you." A slight pause as Seychelles gathered her words.

"I've come to you today to bring to your attention the failing health of, in my opinion, the most important man in Seychelles' history, Jean-Baptiste Queau de Quincy. I just...want to make sure that," she inhaled shakily, "that he gets the proper appreciation after he...after he..."

She couldn't continue and clenched her fists around the fabric of her blue dress, so that it folded up around her knees. Harrison seemed to understand, however, for his smile turned kindly and he leaned forward slightly over his desk to engage with her more quietly.

"Thank you for bringing this matter to my attention, Saya - you are quite right to do so. I am truly sorry - I had not realized he was still alive. If I am correct, Quincy served as Commander, governor, or the like, here for almost twenty years, yes? And he witnessed the very start of this colony to what it is now?"

She nodded and he sat back against his chair, pulling what appeared to be blank paper from within a compartment of his desk. He placed a single sheet on its surface, thought for a moment, and took up a quill, beginning to write slowly and clearly, words and figures on its surface.

"And may I ask," he said suddenly, not looking up from his work, "how a young woman who looks no older that twenty herself, and whom I have not seen once these past three years, seems to understand this man as Seychelles' greatest influence?"

Seychelles tensed, fists still clenched around her dress, and chose her words carefully.

"I have...grown up with Jean these past twenty years. I have no parents I can remember and was lucky enough to be taken in by him and his lovely wife, Marie. He taught me, along with his children, everything from English to French to geography to politics, and in return I became his personal assistant, helping him oversee negotiations with England, our dependence on Mauritius, paper-work, figures..."

She trailed off, watching Harrison write his document, his quill scratching irritatingly in the silence.

Finally, he set it down and looked over his work, pushing the paper aside to dry once he was satisfied. He looked up at her and smiled, catching her off guard.

"So, in short, do I have the pleasure of conversing with the Not-Quite-Yet-National Representative of Seychelles, _Saya_," he asked, laughter in his voice.

All of the tension she hadn't realized was present sank from her shoulders, and she relaxed at the prospect of not having to speak in half-truths - to the _Commissioner_, for goodness sake.

"Yes, yes you do, Mr. Harrison - it's wonderful to formally meet you!" She smiled right back and reached over the desk to shake his hand; he did so warmly.

"Sorry for the confusion, Saya - I suppose it's always a bit of a gamble as to which of us mere mortals knows your true identity."

His smile slipped from his face as he gestured to the document at hand.

"However, introductions aside, we must address the matter at hand, dark as it is. This is a letter to our government's leader on Mauritius describing the current situation and requesting a reserved fund be put aside to be used towards proper funeral expenses for when the time comes. I have no doubt they will grant it, but the answer will take at least three months to arrive, and we cannot proceed without it. This is the best I can do for now."

He looked kindly at her from across his desk, soft smile having never left his face.

She nodded gratefully; not for a second had she expected such a mix of kindness and straight-forward thinking in a Commissioner so soon after Magde. She said as much to Harrison and he laughed softly, nodding in understanding.

"Yes, I have heard from many that he was quite a twit."

Seychelles grinned at that and rose to leave, thanking him once more. She was turning the door handle when he called her human name (so bizarre) once more.

"I realize this is currently a touchy subject, unfortunately, but it is of my belief that the embodiment of a colony should have her say in how it is run. I understand you are loyal to your French heritage and mentor, however, I do not intend on leaving this beautiful island anytime soon."

She smiled sadly and nodded, opening the door in front of her. She thought of England, of France, and her love for both of them.

"Thank you, Mr. Harrison. I can assure you that, while it may take my people time to accept both cultures, _my_ loyalty lies in equal parts with both France and England. I'll come to you when I'm ready."

He dipped his head and she closed the door behind her.

She found herself heading to Quincy's family cabin as opposed to his office, seeing as this was where he spent most of his days now and, she wasn't surprised to find a few villagers puttering in and out of the entrance, Quincy's daughters among them. Word of, not only his, but his wife's ill health had travelled across the settlement. Those who had been governed and cared for under Quincy from the beginning had taken it upon themselves to express their gratitude in his final days. Their genuine thanks warmed Seychelles heart, and she was sure Quincy appreciated it too.

Seeing her, the villages said their final words and farewells for the day and prepared to leave, understanding over time that she and Quincy, while not strictly being family, had a special relationship with one another, and that it was to be respected as any familial relationship was.

She prepared tea for the family, a new addition to the Seychellois culture, courtesy of the British, filling a kettle with water and hanging it over an already crackling fire that the villagers must have made earlier.

With the weather always warm, the room was stifling, but her mentor didn't seem to mind, so neither would she.

"I met George Harrison today, Jean," she spoke softly in French. "Our new Commissioner," she added sadly when he seemed confused. This was the third time in two weeks she had had to remind him of the correlation.

"_Ah, oui, bien sûr, Séchelles. Je souviens. _I am so happy you've immersed yourself in the goings on once more. _C'est magnifique, ma chère, oui."_

He smiled and his skin, already stretched, did so even further to accommodate for the action.

She chirped an affirmative noise and stood to pour the tea, which each family member accepted gratefully, flitting in and out of the cabin.

"Describe to me the state of the settlement, _ma chère."_

He closed his eyes, sipping his tea occasionally, and listened to _her_ teach _him_, for this one time, about the organization of the new Police Force, the starting of small businesses, a church with a parish and a priest, newly built with the finest stone and timber...

She watched him as she spoke, his eyes closed but his mind as open as ever, awed by the simple fact that he had dedicated over thirty years to her, to her island, becoming a part of it, creating a family with its resources. Awed by his choice to stay and spend his final days here, as opposed to taking his family home. Awed by the understanding that this _was _his home now, not France. If he had managed such a thing, who was to say that countless others couldn't?

They continued to drink their tea and amiably converse about nothing and everything, happy in their home sweet home.

_AN - And I'm back! Did'ja miss me? ;) Right off the bat, I'd like to apologize for the suddenness of Quincy's family life. Researching marriage and children completely slipped my mind for some reason... Guess I know where my priorities are. :P I hope that didn't jar you too much... Once I finally realized I should check it out, the details seemed too important to leave out, so I just incorporated them as best I could. Details to follow in the historical notes. Thanks for understanding. :) Also! I know many people use 'Michelle' as Seychelles' human name, but I wanted to be a bit different while still traditional at the same time. Hope you guys are okay with it._

Translations: Je souviens = **I** **remember** bien sur = **of course ** C'est magnifique = **that's wonderful **

Historical notes: _England/Sullivan resigned and left Seychelles at the beginning of 1812, which is kind of convenient considering the war of 1812 is starting up about now and he needs to go to North America to kick some American ass (Canadian pride, what can I say? :P ). Therefore, this is the time period at the beginning of the chapter. Bibye Lasage = Commissioner/Governor and Magde = Civil Administrator. Magde and Quincy never got along, historically, which kind of sucks. Lasage only stayed on as COmmissioner for 2-3 years and Magde took his place in 1815, leaving in 1822. So, he was there for a total of ten years. _

_French traditions were kept; the British Commissioners were basically just overseers, making sure that the French knew the British owned the islands. _

_Quincy was still referred to as Justice of the Peace, but now that official government members had stripped him of governance, that didn't really mean much anymore. You can understand how devastating that must have been. _

_Haha, awks, but Quincy married twice in his life - once for a few years on Mauritius to Marie Magdalaine Antoinette Duval, but divorced her in 1793 to marry Marie Joseph Dubail, mentioned in this fic on October 9th, 1794. Marie already had one child with a previous husband, Josephine-Aimée, but had three more girls with Quincy: Josephine-Anne, Josephine-Henriette, and Célestine-Jeanne. So many Josephines..._

_Quincy was Commissioner/Governor from September 1793 to June 1811: 18 years; the extra is the first year Seychelles came to know him in 1792. _

_Life on Seychelles was certainly progressing, but living on an island colony certainly had its difficulties. To make administration 'easier,' Seychelles' government was denominated, so to speak, to the Mauritian government. Everything Seychelles did had to be run through Mauritius. Seychelles is right when she refers to her island as insubordinate to Mauritius because that's essentially what it was; nobody really liked it, but it was done anyway to appease the politicians. _

_Lmfao, yes, the next Commissioner is called George Harrison - deal with it. :P He took up the position in 1822, after Magde._

_Businesses, churches, police officials, etc, were finally being formed around this time, as the population of Seychelles slowly but steadily grew. Good old George Harrison - he gets shit done. _

Anyway, so here we are in 1826 - only another two hundred years to go... -_- Thank you so much to everyone for reading and favouriting - it means a lot! And I'm really sorry about the sudden appearance of family members... It just had to squeeze itself in there. See you soon!


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